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STRAY LEAVES FROM 
A SOUL'S BOOK 

BY 

****** 




" Let us raise a standard to which the wise 

and the honest can repair. The event is 

in the hand of God." ~* w , . 

J^ Washington 

BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

The Gorham Press 
1905 



Copyright 1905 by RICHARD G. BADGER 
All Rights Reserved 



! 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies docked 

MAY 2 JW5 
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COPY 8. 



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THE GORHAM PRESS 
Boston, U. S. A. 






FIRST LEAF 



"Make thy calculations, O Disciple, if thou 
wouldst learn the correct age of thy Small 
Wheel. Its Fourth Spoke is our Mother. 
Reach the Fourth Fruit of the Fourth Path of 
Knowledge that leads to Wisdom, and thou 
shalt comprehend, for thou shalt see . . ." 

BOOK OF WISDOM 



FIRST LEAF 

An ancient land, so ancient its very name is 
now forgotten. An ancient people — who were 
they? What man living knows? A Temple 
wonderful, who planned it? Of gilstening 
white, translucent, golden, crystal. Was it 
marble? No ; yet what man can say the nature 
of the stone, what delver in the bowels of the 
earth conceive its marvelous structure. Set in 
a grove of trees, dark, mysterious, mighty. 
Were they cedars, pines, or myrtle ? No, none 
of these; yet who among the tracers of plant 
life and history has ever rested 'neath such 
mystic shades or dreamed in harmony with 
their wordless whisperings. 

A people tall, fair, fearless, wise : their wis- 
dom, who has treasured it? Of their history 
who holds the record ? 



Stray Leaves 

Yet I was one of these; I, of the Dual Soul. 
A priestess and a priest, for we were One; a 
priest and priestess He, for we were One. 

A glimpse of a vast fane, a breath of 
strange, wild odors from the grove; and He 
and I together, our child held hand in hand, 
standing with the throng upon the square, a 
glimpse, a breath — that's all. Yet this was 
life, consciousness, reality so long passed by, 
so faintly caught; a blossom of the seed sown 
many lives before; the fruitful seed from 
which have sprung the many lives since then. 



REVERIE 



Can bloom so perfect grow to fruit less 
fair? Can fruit so rich and sweet conceal a 
blighted seed? 

Search well the ways of nature's working, 
pierce deep into the heart of things ; what do 
you find? A single point where "oneness" 
means "alike"? A single form which just re- 
peats its fellow ? Why is this difference, what 
its hidden source? And who shall say that in 
the "blighted" seed is not expressed some fea- 
ture of those hidden springs of life which 
seek expression, so. 

Who has ever caught and held the Soul of 
things ? Whose eye has seen the spark of Pow- 
er glowingunheeded in the human heart? Who 
has solved the riddle of the Soul's desire, or 
fathomed the whole purpose of its wander- 
ings? 

5 



Stray Leaves 

Weary of peace, the Spark within growing 
hot and urging on, the Soul stands at the gate 
of Paradise, gazing wide-eyed into the surg- 
ing blackness of the untried Beyond; craving 
for what ? For experience, for pain — which 
it has never known. 

Who shall say the waking of these fires is 
a "blight"? Who dare call the first step taken 
into those surging depths by the untried Soul, 
a fall? 

No lasting joy can be in ignorance; true 
peace is not known until unrest is found ; one- 
ness becomes monotony to that which has nev- 
er known the pain of separation, of lonely 
wandering, of the striving to understand. 

Only when quiescence has given place to 
activity, only when each Spark of that One 
Hidden Flame has learned, glowing in the 
darkness, to see itself, its twin, and all the 
countless other fires around it whirling, as the 
expressions of the Great Idea, can it conceive 
the joy of shining all together; the peace of 
union in one perfect flame. 

So within these two, this One, my Soul and 
I, was born a restiveness, a desire, — we knew 

6 



First Leaf 

not what. We would not speak of it, but when 
it chafed we smiled together. 

Through all that day it showed no other 
sign; yet it was there; a tiny sting within the 
blossom's very heart; a little seed that must 
bear fruit; the fanning of the tiny spark of 
Power to flame ; the flame which must burn ig- 
norance to ashes no matter what the cost, no 
matter what the pain. For the wisdom of 
that age and time was given, not won; and 
such the Soul can value not when once the en- 
ergy Divine has quickened it to life and 
thought. 

Thus through succeeding days and nights 
the flame, growing ever, showed two tongues; 
and these with bitter tears drew wide apart, 
to wander through the mazes of that laby- 
rinthine night; groping at first, stumbling, fail- 
ing of their goal yet struggling on until they 
both should KNOW. Until the day "Be 
With Us" dawning, they should meet and 
once again unite, in joyful recognition of the 
peace that knows no night, of the peace that 
knows no day, of that peace which built 



Stray Leaves 

on these, is its own light, its own knowledge, 
love, wisdom, all-embracing, perfect, true. 



What is this wisdom — perfect, true? 
What is it that the Soul must know? Why 
is not Wisdom "given" as satisfying as Wis- 
dom "won"? 

Shall we answer? No; let each retire with- 
in his own Secure Retreat ; let each there raise 
the veil which hides his Holy Place ; then to 
his eager eyes will stand revealed this mystery 
his own. We may not speak of it. 'Tis not 
for ears to hear, 'tis for the Soul to find ; we 
can but point the way along which Peace, 
Wisdom, Power may at last be found. 

What is the way? 

The way of life. The transient touch with 
this, and that; transient, but remembered. 
The meeting close with many other souls, the 
journey with them through a space of time, a 
sympathy established, a long enduring feud, 
an effort to pierce through the veil which 
hides their True from its realities, the dawn- 

8 



First Leaf 

ing recognition of their common aim how- 
ever clogged, however staid. This could not 
be where the Dual Soul in perfect peace dwelt 
still apart. Such would be a universe of ones 
which, soon or late, because of the inherent 
power for ever pressing on, would war to- 
gether like the children of the Dragon's Teeth 
for naught. But such are the inherent laws 
of souls, that war in Paradise has never been ; 
and what seems war without, is but the effort 
of them all to attune experience, to that heav- 
enly song within the Heart. 

Thus in the many days which the Soul jour- 
neys through, it cements ties — for good? for 
ill? who dares to say? So long as it remem- 
bers, learns, and seeks, it shall most surely 
win to its own place. 



SECOND LEAF 



" Listen, ye Sons of Earth, to your in- 
structors — the Sons of the Fire. Learn, there 
is neither first nor last; for all is One Num- 
ber, issued from No-Number." 

BOOK OF WISDOM 



SECOND LEAF 

The screen of time moves slowly by, before 
the eye of fitful memory ; and ever anon some 
form, some face, an hour of triumph, a night 
of failure or despair; a child at play in sunny 
lands, another child near by ; a man bent over 
with the weight of toil, the voiceless song but 
faintly echoing to his dulled senses and heavy, 
sordid cares. All these and many more take 
shadowy shape and pass, lost in the mists of 
the first shifting shades, lurking outside the 
gates of that fair Paradise. 

Suddenly, one stands out clear and strong 
in light of Eastern sun blazing high at noon. 

A calm blue river flowing toward the sea 
through sandy wastes, cities, gardens, fruitful 
fields. Great temples with wide mystic fa- 
cades, guarded by great figures, which with 

13 



Stray Leaves 

wistful eyes look toward the desert where the 
type of Wisdom stands, seeking perhaps, as 
did their living models, the answer to that rid- 
dle of the Sphynx, still unsolved by the strug- 
gling world, but yielding in those days, rich 
store of possibilities to such as truly sought. 

Beside a playing fountain which showers 
its sparkling drops into the lotus' hearts 
thronging its basin to the rim ; neath shade of 
palms, past beds of roses which fill the air 
with their rare perfume; conscious, but not 
thinking of the temple just beyond, whose 
great broad steps flanked by symbolic mon- 
sters, lead to the river's edge; I see One pac- 
ing, pacing back and forth, deep in thought, 
fired with ardent zeal to win the Great Ac- 
complishment. White robed, of swarthy skin, 
yet blue eyed; of humble parentage, but with 
a heart set to the highest purposes of life; he 
ponders on the mystery of Being — his own 
and all these others whom he knows — he seeks 
and seeks the answer to that question which 
once propounded he must meet, or fail of that 
toward which his whole life has been bent. 

The noondaysun changes to slanting rays of 

14 



Second Leaf 

afternoon and that again slips softly into 
night. 

He sweeps the heaven's starry depths with 
eyes that question still: — "What is this thing 
that I should know? How shall I solve the 
riddle? I must not fail — yet I must speak to- 
morrow. The answer hides somewhere with- 
in my very soul ; this I know ; but what it is, 
what form 'twill take, in what letters it is 
spelled — this still escapes me, still flies within 
obscurity the more I seek, the nearer I may 
seem to come. What, what"? 

Thus through the radiant moonlit night, 
through the dark solemn hours before the 
dawn; with reverent prayer and hymn of 
praise greeting the glorious Lord of day ; un- 
heeding sounds of wakening life in the great 
city, lying majestic on the other shore, he 
passes on, the riddle still unsolved. 

Unnoticed, the hours creep on and grow 
towards noon ; the noon of his great test, his 
test of Self. 

A murmur from the temple; the sound of 
feet that haste to meet a call which must come 
soon ; voices raised in solemn chant ; a pungent 

15 



Stray Leaves 

incense smoke that seems to fill the heated, 
quivering air. He turns to go, dejected; for 
he has not found the answer. 

But he has the courage to say "I do not 
know — I have not found"; the patience that 
will seek and seek again undaunted, and so, 
with head erect and shoulders broad and 
square, he passes swiftly through the garden's 
winding ways to meet — a thicket of rich scent- 
ed rose stirred not by the breeze — a little 
laughing face which peeps at him from the 
midst of thorny stems, great eyes full of love 
such as a child's heart knows, two tiny hands 
which reaching plead, "Ah take me up." He 
stops for just a moment; gathers the child 
close to his heart and kisses it, the clinging 
arms flung tight about his neck. Just a mo- 
ment — but the clanging gong from out the 
temple calls; "Too late, too late." He stands 
aghast. 



Failed, failed! 

The words hammer on his very soul with 
each beat of his devoted heart. 

16 



Second Leaf 

Failed! — Failed of the answer; but worst 
of all, failed by a moment to meet the incense's 
subtle, floating signal. Failed to appear at 
the appointed hour, failed to meet his mas- 
ter — and for what? A passing impulse, a 
child's ignorant demand ; in all a lurking fault 
in duty hidden there, where he believed him- 
self most strong. 

Failed. What shall he do? He cannot 
meet his fellows, cannot look into their eyes 
with this shame upon him. He cannot face 
his master, no, even though he knows He 
would be merciful. Where shall he go ? What 
shall his future purpose be? 

The laughing child, in changing mood as of 
some April day, tossing the petals of a crim- 
son rose full in his face, has danced singing, 
far into the garden's peaceful shade. 

Alone he stands under the tropic's blazing 
sun, heedless of all save that one thought — 
failed, failed ! How long I cannot say ; but — 
the sound of steps along the path and like a 
startled stag, wide-eyed he stands and waits at 
bay. He who is approaching, on seeing him, 
with hastened step and strong hand held forth, 

17 



Stray Leaves 

comes to him saying gently: — "My friend, 
my friend." 

They look into each other's eyes; no other 
word is spoken, yet do they understand ; and 
presently, he whose long vigil had availed so 
little, slowly turns and never looking back, 
passes for the last time through all those 
shaded, scented ways he loved so well, out 
toward the desert, out toward lands unknown 
— alone. And he who could not help, stands 
looking after. 



Poor groping Soul to whom the knowledge 
it had gained thus far, availed so little at this 
step. 

Poor wayward Heart, faltering on the 
Soul's Path to follow human ways 1 only to be 
held back. 

The question pondered on, the answer 
sought were there, — and yet he could not see. 

Self-exiled, laboring on, still seeking, dying, 
— through many trials has he still to pass ere 
realization comes, that love is not mere im- 

18 



Second Leaf 

pulse, that duty first, a pledge fulfilled — leads 
straightest to the heart's inmost desire. 'Tis 
the Good Physician whose healing hand re- 
moves the scales from blinded eyes, brings to 
the Soul its "Life's Elixir." 



19 






THIRD LEAF 



"If thou canst not fulfil thy pledge refuse to 
take it; but once thou hast bound thyself to 
any promise, carry it out even if thou hast to 
die for it." 

BOOK OF DISCIPLINE 



THIRD LEAF 



The rising tide is softly lapping on the 
gleaming sand; each ripple seems to hold a 
kiss for the Sea's bride — the Land. 

The full moon radiant, white, moves 
through a heaven of rich soft blue, even at 
this late hour. She sends a shimmering silver 
path across the water's quiet swell, she turns 
the glossy laurel leaves to sparkling points of 
quivering light and flings dense shadows all 
beneath the mystic pines and whispering aca- 
cias. 

The low grey wall which sweeps along the 
sea's soft shingle bed, guarding with loving 
arm from its advance, the virgin grove within ; 
looks, 'neath her fairy touch, as white as mar- 
ble. 

Ah, tempting and transforming Moon! 
You fling illusion over all your ways and even 

23 



Stray Leaves 

human hearts become entangled, within the 
lacey network of your rays. 

Your narrowing path which seems to lead 
within heaven's perfect blue, finds goal alas, 
but on and on across the sea's unstable breast 
— from whence at dawn it fades and dies. 
Your very charm, your tempting light and 
shade, are of night skies ! 

There comes a faint, far sound of oars ; the 
even stroke draws nearer, nearer. A tiny boat 
driven forward by a boy whose glossy curls 
look black against the blue of that soft night; 
the golden fillet binding them has changed to 
violet; and the face beneath, soft-eyed, full- 
lipped, eager — turns over with a look intent 
upon the boundary wall, seeking for some 
sign, some signal, that should float from out 
the velvet blackness just behind. 

Still no response — he frowns and sighs ; and 
drawing in the oars, waits for a time, within 
his gently tilting boat; then, all at once de- 
termined, with two or three strong, steady 
strokes he brings his boat to land and spring- 
ing out, draws it still nearer, that the rope ly- 



24 



Third Leaf 

ing in its prow, may be made fast to a great 
ring which hangs upon the wall. 

With cautious step along the sand he goes, 
until he comes to where two great azalias shed 
their snowy petals in wanton ecstacy upon the 
wings of night. Here, listening breathless, 
for a sound which does not come, he gives a 
low, soft call — and waits again. 

What is it that he hears? Is it some wan- 
dering son of the night airs, straying uninvited 
through the sleeping trees? Is it a dove with- 
in her nest among the Cyprus boughs drawing 
her downy young closer within the shelter of 
her wings? Is it the foot-fall of some wood- 
land thing ; some faun, some nymph, tempted 
by the moon's enticing rays to dream and 
wander nearer man's abode? Surely 'tis a 
driad he now sees, forcing her way through 
the rough bark, that held her prisoner, to 
sport awhile for this, her one short hour of 
fitful liberty, along the sand, upon the wall; 
and dip her poor cramped limbs and gleaming 
hair deep, deep into the cooling bosom of the 
sea. 

Again he calls — the answer comes. No 

25 



Stray Leaves 

driad this, no nymph, no faun — only a timid 
girl, who speeding noiselessly 'neath protect- 
ing shades the moon flings dense to cover her, 
has come to keep the word she gave at dawn 
that day when, as with others she bore the 
torch which was to light the Hestian fire 
(should such disaster ever come that it had 
died) he, unobserved by any from his hiding 
place behind the bole of a great sacred tree, 
had whispered to her startled ear "I love you 
— meet me;" and she, who had long dreampt 
upon his face so often seen near by, made an- 
swer quickly "How, where?" u Tonight, the 
sea wall, the great white azalias" ! and he 
drew back to his retreat while she passed on. 

With one bound the wall is passed — a step 
or two — he's caught her in his arms and their 
lips meet. 

Why is it that she has no fear of him? 
Whence springs this confidence, this perfect 
trust? She does not ask, no shade of question- 
ing clouds her thought or even enters in ; she 
only knows that here is fullness, joy, delight — 
she loves him. 

So still the hush that falls upon the night; 
26 



Third Leaf 

the tide is full, the sea asleep upon the sand's 
white breast ; the roving breeze has passed 
far on leaving the azalias motionless ; their 
very scent hangs heavy round their hearts — 
an offering of love no longer prized by the 
wind's careless mood. The moon stands still 
to hear the whispering of these human souls 
and all the shadows she has cast stand sentinel 
to guard their secret hour. 

Along the path that travels by the wall, 
through light and shade, through dusk and 
gleam they pass, these two, as One. Their si- 
lence speaks, their words but half express that 
which they long to say. Then, reclining under 
the azalias' bloom, they talk of this strange 
thing that they both feel. He tells her he has 
known her always in his dreams and she re- 
plies, that when their eyes first met she felt 
that she was his. Then why, he queries, since 
all this is true, should she remain forever pris- 
oned here behind this wall, within this grove 
— a slave. For where is freedom to be found 
when the heart is bound to vows which only 
strive to stop its beating, calling that sin, 
which is but true, and sweet, and fair, and 

27 



Stray Leaves 

good. And she, poor child, urged by a voice 
within which cries: — "I love him, can this be 
wrong ?" — yields for a time to the sweet ec- 
stacy of his demand, and smiles — as on her 
neck, her arms, her hands, he presses kisses 
speaking more than words. She lets her fin- 
gers stray among his curls ; she presses her lips 
timidly upon their glossy mass and with the 
flowers that fall about them weaves a crown 
which she insists makes him her king forever. 
He answers — "No; for you were always mine 
and I've been yours since times began. There 
shall be no crown for me, unless you wear one 
too." She smiles, and yet she sighs; "Perhaps 
'tis so ; but how can we tell, how can we know ? 
For, if it be true that we are of those whom 
the Gods have made to be together, why 
should I have bound myself by vows, so that 
I cannot rightly now, be yours?" 

Startled, she hears the echo of her words 
upon the night, she springs in terror to her 
feet. "What have I done — what have I 
said?" she cries; but he, as quick as thought, 
gathers her again within his close embrace, 
kisses the terror from her eyes, and 'neath his 

28 



Third Leaf 

magic touch her fears grow faint, the warning 
voice of conscience dies. 

He pleads and gently argues as they stray, 
unknown to her, towards the spot at which his 
boat lies moored. "The Law of Souls is first; 
the law of creeds, framed in darkened human 
hearts, is last; and why should it prevail?" 
She listens, all too willing to assent, she sees 
it clearly now. "Vows made in ignorance are 
of so little worth that breaking them is what? 
Only a recognition of the True." 

The point is reached, he springs upon the 
wall still holding her hand fast, and turning, 
invites her to his side. She follows dreamily, 
scarce knowing what it is he asks — so full her 
mind is of contending thoughts, this struggle 
of her heart to meet her heart. Stooping, he 
unknots the cords from out the ring, then 
turning, moves to have her spring with him 
upon the now, narrow strip of sand. 

A strange vibration seems to thrill the air; 
the moon, unobserved, has long since passed 
beyond the far clear line of the sea's blue. A 
motion seems to wake within the water at their 
feet; a crisp, clean breath floats lightly 

29 



Stray Leaves 

through their hair ; a soft sigh passes over all 
the grove. The tide is going out — the dawn is 
near. 

But in those few short moments while his 
head was turned, a change has come to her — 
a change so< subtle he cannot trace from 
whence it came or how it stays. But — it is 
there. 

Freeing the hand he held, with an uncon- 
scious action of resolve, she clasps it tightly in 
her other one and standing motionless, with 
white face set as if carved out of stone she 
speaks four words — "I will not go." So sim- 
ply can the whole dread weight of years to 
come, the whole great purpose of the ages past 
be spoken by the Human Will. 

To all his prayers she only answers "No." 
To all his arguments she makes the same re- 
ply 'til, stung by the pain of thwarted, honest 
purpose, scorched by the fires of love he can- 
not stay, he cries — "You are afraid, you do 
not trust me !" She quivers at the thrust of his 
reproach but meeting with strange courage his 
beseeching eyes she answers quietly — "The 
day will come when you will understand. You 

30 



Third Leaf 

cannot now but the time will be when these 
reproaches sounding in your ears will, to your 
heart as to mine now, be but the cry of a hurt 
child who seeks to heal, by pressing harder on 
the wounded place. If as you say, if as I feel, 
your soul and mine are one, then at some fu- 
ture dawn your eyes, as mine do now, will 
open wide and see that vows, though made in 
ignorance, can only be annulled by faithful 
keeping; not by flight, not by breaking, 
which would be the fruit of ignorance as dark 
as that which held the Soul when they were 
taken. A voice there is which seems to say to 
me that Light can only come when we have 
traversed patiently the long Dark. To sleep, 
to dream of day, is but to halt our steps awhile 
in self-indulgent rest; we wake, in the same 
place, our journey still to make, no nearer to 
our goal ; and all the hours spent in building 
fancy's pictures, are but one more long delay 
to the still hungry Soul. Have patience; we 
shall yet meet the light of Dawn together." 

Thus, like a prophetess she spoke; spoke far 
better than she knew ; raised by that one great 



3i 



Stray Leaves 

effort for the right she had been taught, a 
moment within the kingdom of the True. 

But on his ears in which the throbbing cry 
of love, love, love, kept beating hot and 
strong, her words fell only as do icy drops 
from mountain's snows upon a fire ; they could 
not cool, they could not soothe nor quench, but 
disappeared in its fierce glowing depths de- 
voured and yet not known of by the flame. 

He would have made one last appeal but 
looking in her set, pale face, the words died 
on his lips. 

Reckless, he sprang into his boat, took oars 
in hand and rowing without thought or pause, 
plunged on upon the track of the receding 
tide; nor did he look again to see her standing* 
sibyl-like, upon the long, grey wall. 



Faithfully she kept her vow ; her hair grew 
grey and much esteemed she was, in its fulfill- 
ment. Called, "Of the Stainless Soul," with 
reverence were her counsels sought, in grati- 
tude obeyed; and those who looked into her 

32 



Third Leaf 

patient face exclaimed: — "Peace is most sure- 
ly written there" — so little does one human 
heart perceive the secret springs of others' 
lives; for, peace she never knew. 

She kept her vow, never passed beyond the 
walls, never left the scented grove, ne'er raised 
her eyes again to look in any man's ; her body 
pure indeed, according to the rules by which 
she held. But the azalias' bloom, the mur- 
mur of the sea, the path, the wall, spoke but 
one thing to her persistent memory; held but 
one form round which her dreams would 
weave sweet fancies, dear illusions, pictures; 
these were her life, her Soul's companions. 
And shall all those years of yearning go for 
naught ? Have they no moulding power ? Do 
they leave no lasting stamp upon the Soul ? 

And what of him ? 

Denied the sweet communion that he 
sought, from grave to gay, from toil to sport ; 
in stern reserve, in passion's madest whirl, he 
sought to feed the heart's hunger ever there 
and died — satiate perhaps with life's deverse 
ways, but still unsatisfied. 



33 



Stray Leaves 

Can human law then hold the Soul apart? 
Can human creeds proclaim its union "sin"? 
Should It repudiate its right Divine, to be- 
come One again ? 

Who made the laws ? Who built the creeds ? 
Whose faltering steps marked out the intri - 
cate network of paths which cross and cross 
again to form the substance upon which these 
stand ? 

Shall It refuse to find an answer to the pro- 
blem it has helped to frame? Can it find peace 
until it sees the light of Wisdom shining 
from behind. Can It know love indeed, be- 
fore that day when, looking in the mirror of 
the Heart it sees all others as its Self — its Self 
as They? 



34 



REVERIE 

How strange, how intricate, and yet how 
simple life becomes, when once the Soul re- 
members. 

A whisper here, a passing glimpse; a look 
exchanged, a hand clasp there; and, as a bit 
of melody unheard for years, an odor familiar 
to childhood's days will bring to mind some 
incident, some habit, some accustomed round 
long since forgotten; so these, with instant 
clearness may recall the face of friends, a mu- 
tual purpose, a climatic struggle; or some 
peaceful hour spent together in those far dis- 
tant times when, although other than we are 
now, yet, even as now, seeking to unravel the 
massed strands of fate which we have tangled 
in our blind flutterings here and there ; our en- 
deavors by the " touch with this and that" to 
resolve the mystery — I am, by coming close 

35 



Stray Leaves 

to THOU, THINE, MINE, OURS WE and 

where some common answer has been 
reached, if only to the first figure of the sum; 
by war, by peace, by love, by hate, by soul's 
communion — a mark we set upon our Record 
Book which times, which ages never can ef- 
face. 

Then is made clear the dynamic, subtle 
power of thought, of motive. Then is per- 
ceived the unfailing, true relation of act to 
purpose. Then will appear where lay the flaw 
between the thought, word and deed; that 
whether it were recognized or not, it has striv- 
en within the Soul's experience, until a perfect 
balance should be reached. For, in the pur- 
poses of that Divine which is the Soul's Ac- 
complishment — simplicity, directness, under- 
standing, are as the "tonic" of a perfect scale, 
whereby it mounts and mounts through vast 
progressions, to harmonies yet undreamed of 
by the waiting world. 

So, where to the Soul which still asleep re- 
members nothing, this present life seems but 
a chaos of events beginning nowhere and, but 
in rare instances, leading definitely to an end; 

36 



Third Leaf 

to the Soul which truly lives, whose eyes are 
open, each incident, each "new acquaintance," 
may suddenly stand out as a bar in the sym- 
phony we've wrought together. The eyes we 
meet for the "first time," may be of a comrade 
of the long gone by ; the work we do, the out- 
come of our purposes in ages past ; the perfect 
union and communion of two souls, the dawn 
of a bright day which they shall know, having 
traversed patiently "the long Dark" of ignor- 
ance, of misconception, fear, and doubt; and 
the bitter tears they shed along the way, held 
in Wisdom's golden cup, are the sacrificial 
draught which, if once drained, becomes the 
magic philter so long sought in vain, whereby 
passion turns to love — love, to compas- 
sion whose waters pouring into the waiting 
Heart there rest — an exhaustless spring of 
heavenly sweetness from which if any drink, 
they can never thirst again. 



37 



FOURTH LEAF 



"The Pupil must regain the child-state he 
has lost 'ere the first sound can fall upon his 



ear." 



VOICE OF THE SILENCE 



FOURTH LEAF 



Down, down, down a narrow, stone-cut 
stair ; so dark one could not see one's hand be- 
fore one's face save for the ruddy flare of a 
torch which, in the stillness of this almost air- 
less space, scarcely flickers. The torch is born 
by a boy not more than twelve years old, to 
light the steps of One who follows close be- 
hind. 

Down, down, down ; will the stairway never 
end? Even to the child who has traveled its 
full length before, the way seems long ; what 
must it be to him who follows ? 

Down, down, down ; this must lead to the 
very bowels of the earth. The child turns 
with a warning gesture but no word, and sud- 
denly extinguishes the torch. The last part of 
the way is covered in Stygian darkness. 

In the dense silence broken only by the 

4i 



Stray Leaves 

ghostly sound of their own footfalls, even the 
child's brave heart, thrills with a kind of fear, 
although he knows the end is Light. He 
knocks upon an unseen door; noiselessly it 
opens and they step within a vast, high-roofed 
hall. They stand in the presence of the 

BROTHERS. 

Silently They rise, these great, white-robed 
forms; silently they stand as the Boy Guide, 
taking the candidate by the hand, leads him to 
a spot marked out by mystic symbols where 
he shall wait, and then glides softly back to 
his place beside the door. 

The hall is luminous, but from whence the 
light, none could discern. It seems to pervade 
the very atmosphere; to be present every- 
where; steady, still, overpowering; not in its 
volume but in its nature, for though subdued, 
unglaring — it has life. 

The Boy drops his eyes. He has no part in 
this, save the secret of the covered way o'er 
which he guides and guides, those who may 
face the light, who may "pass on;" his only 
work, his only privilege — is this. 

The silence seems as endless as the stair; 
42 



Fourth Leaf 

the light becomes as awful to the waiting soul 
as was the darkness to the quick-beating heart. 
Then, from where he sits at the far end, upon 
a chair of marvelous workmanship, the mas- 
ter rises; and about him glows a radiance 
indescribable, awe-inspiring ; and all the white- 
robed brothers pronounce as in one 
mighty chord, a Word which sounds and 
sounds again, out, as it would seem, in waves 
on waves vibrating to the very limit of the 
Limitless. 

The Boy beside the door trembling, ecstatic, 
overpowered, falls upon his face. He rises, 
the master lifts his hand in benediction, 
and turning, the child passes silently through 
the noiseless-moving door, his duty done, ap- 
proved. And this was all. 



43 



FIFTH LEAF 



4 'Think not that breaking bone, that rend- 
ing flesh and muscle, unites thee to thy 'silent 
Self. Think not that when the sins of thy 
gross form are conquered, O Victim of thy 
Shadows, thy duty is accomplished by nature 
and by man." 

"The selfish devotee lives to no purpose. 
The man who does not go through his ap- 
pointed work in life — has lived in vain." 

" Follow the wheel of life; follow the wheel 
of duty to race and kin, to friend and foe — ." 

THE TWO PATHS 



FIFTH LEAF 

A jagged wall of reddish rock rising un- 
friendly from a narrow strip of sand, reflected 
in a pool, turbid, unref reshing. 

Where has Love gone? — How far he must 
have flown that e'en one spot upon this little 
Ball should be so lonely, so deserted, harsh, 
unfriendly. 

The rocks are softened only by drifted 
sand, borne here as, through the narrow 
gorge now and again, the hot simoom comes 
rushing from the desert just beyond. The 
desert! — even it has not been left so friend- 
less. Here and there the palm trees wave, the 
soft grass sways beside some limpid pool or 
bubbling spring, whose secret source must hide 
somewhere close to the desert's heart. But this 
place, where e'en the sun can shine but for an 
hour or two each day, closed from any breath 

47 



Stray Leaves 

of heaven's pure airs save at the very peak of 
its rugged almost hopeless height, no flower 
blooms, no herbage dares to struggle faintly 
through the hungry sand save in a stunted 
fringe close down at the muddy water's edge. 
Not even birds will halt awhile. Some weak- 
lings growing faint on the long journey they 
must take, loose heart at times and sink ex- 
hausted on a rocky ledge, to rest. Poor fool- 
ish birds — their rest means death! Their 
stronger comrades speeding fast across the 
dreary, love-forgotten spot, rather to die up- 
on the wide-spreading desert sands than here, 
are soon lost to sight, and hope and courage 
fail the timid little hearts to take up their 
flight again. 

Can any living thing have chosen such a 
place for any purpose and call its fulfilment 
life? Yet such must be for, toiling painfully 
along, leaning upon a staff, a little wallet hang- 
ing from the cord which binds the loin-cloth 
upon his wasted form — there comes One who 
seems to have grown so much a part of this 
lone spot, that almost he might be a bit of 



48 



Fifth Leaf 

sandstone rock by some strange chance given 
life, and motion, and the look of man. 

What brings him here — there is naught to 
find ? See how well he seems to know each step 
upon the way. He even notes what may to 
him be land-marks; while to another, each 
jagged form seems but a repetition of the last. 

He reaches a spot at which he turns and 
slowly, very slowly, begins to climb. Up, up, 
and up — and now 'tis clear there is a thread 
of pathway worn along the rocky, frowning 
face — worn by his feet. How many, many 
times he must have traveled it! Poor wasted 
form, poor shrunken heart, striving in this 
awful solitude to unlock by patience, loneliness 
and prayer, the door of his own soul ! He 
reaches a hollow at the pathway's end, dug out 
with rude implements by his own patient hands 
to serve him as a shelter of a sort. 

The charred and now dead embers of a fire 
lie in the middle of this space; a ragged bit of 
cloth heaped in one corner, must be his bed, if 
ever he yield to soi great a weakness as to rest 
his bent old limbs upon a softer couch than the 
rough rock floor. A little brazen bowl, a skin 

49 



Stray Leaves 

for water — these are the furnishings of his re- 
treat. 

Muttering, he takes the wallet from its cord 
and flings it down. Far has he gone and waited 
long to gather up a few stray dates spilled 
from the glutted sacks borne across the desert 
by the camel-trains. A rich oasis lies quite close 
to the entrance of this gorge ; but even there 
he dare not go, lest he be tempted to enjoy a 
draught of its clear waters, the taste of its rich 
fruits flung generously about by Nature's am- 
ple, loving hand. 

With bits of flint he starts his fire. The sun 
has long since left the place and a dense, 
strange chill has settled everywhere; his poor 
old limbs are trembling with the cold. Yet the 
fire is no indulgence, for his purpose is quite 
other than the search for comfort. 

The fire grows and lives but he dares not 
look upon its friendly flame lest it should 
cheer him. With eyes cast down and muttered 
invocations, he takes his little brazen bowl and 
prepares his offering; then, the blaze having 
died down, leaving a bed of red, live coals, he 
sets the bowl upon it — and the sweet perfume 

50 



Fifth Leaf 

of his sacrifice rises to fill the little cave, passes 
out into the lonely gorge, and mounting ever 
higher is wafted to the skies ; whilst he, in ec- 
stacy of pain and renunciation of what he 
fears is Sin — knows not for all his prayer, his 
searching, his self-blinded service, that the 
very heart of it is Love; which he in ignor- 
ance and folly has mismade Passion. 



Will the Soul never learn ? How, long, how 
long it makes the way ! 'Tis all so simple ! Yet, 
the stumbling and the struggle much avail; 
for each error holds the seed of future victory ; 
and the sacrifice though made in ignorance, 
where the purpose is to seek the True, must 
surely at some point of the tear-sodden Path, 
reveal at last, the Secret Shrine where in ever* 
present joy, sits love, the heavenly mystery. 



5i 



SIXTH LEAF 



"The Universe exists for the experience of 
the Soul." 

ALCHEMICAL AXIOM 



SIXTH LEAF 

Spring ! 

Wakening life. The Earth hungering for 
the seeds which she shall nurse and foster that 
they may learn the joy of growth and air and 
blessed rain and sun. 

The trees are full awake and could you hear 
it, their juices sing a hymn of praise as mount- 
ing they give birth to fresh green leaves and 
plan the blooms and fruits that must so surely 
follow, with the help of Ceres and Apollo. 

The brown fields ploughed but yesterday, 
stand ready for man's help nor must he tarry. 
Great is his responsibility since he has coerced 
them to his will and forced them to produce 
nought but weeds and brambles save he help 
them to a better purpose now. 

The little village, of some forty one-roomed 
homes, built of soft earth hardened to a ce- 

55 



Stray Leaves 

ment like stone, is astir. The men are in the 
fields, stripped save for a loin-cloth and a wide 
rush woven hat; the women at their work 
within the house, work made up of so many 
little things. 

The soft earth floor must be smoothed over 
and all trace of crossing feet wiped out. The 
table of a fine hard wood, must be well scrub- 
bed with sand and all the stains of wine and 
oil and fruit cleaned quite away. The sleeping- 
mats of rushes, lying along the sides of the 
one room with their coverings of skins — for 
the nights are still quite cool — must be laid 
out upon the grass awhile that the sun and air 
may purify them and then rolled up and 
stacked away where they belong, till night 
again. Fresh flowers must be brought to deck 
the little shrine standing in every house where 
it may be saluted from the entrance door. A 
fresh lamp filled with oil and the wick trans- 
ferred to it with the greatest care, that the 
flame shall not go out. Then the cooking of 
the noon-day meal and all those other details 
of a home, be it large or small, of any race, or 
clime, or age. 

56 



Sixth Leaf 

Along the road whose side the village 
houses fringe, a slight, girlish figure bounds; 
the very type she seems, of the buoyancy and 
vigorous, early life of this spring day. Now 
and again she sings a snatch of song or breaks 
into a run or dances lightly over the stony 
way; yet for all her careless aspect her purpose 
is well defined. 

The first care in her day is the service of the 
shrine just as with her brother, the smoke of 
his burnt offering curls straight and blue from 
the midst of his brown field's breast, before 
one seed is placed within the waiting furrows. 
Others may find the household cares supreme, 
or planting best before the early dews have 
been drawn off by Apollo's thirsty rays. Not 
so these two. Should they not first recognize 
and thank the gracious mother of the fields, 
the patron of their house, the faithful watcher 
over all whose earthly parents are no more? 
Ah! Mother Ceres, most gracious and most 
tender of the Gods, those who are loved by 
Thee can lack for nothing; and shall they not 
rejoice in thy sweet service? 

Such thoughts as these may flit athwart the 

57 



Stray Leaves 

fancy of the tripping girl ; but she is all intent 
to reach the spot she knows, upon the margin 
of the brook, where grow in chaste confusion 
the early flowers of the Spring. 

Some seven miles away there stands a hill 
toward which this roadway leads, crowned by 
a rough wall and ruder citadel, outlined 
against a sky so blue it seems almost a silken 
curtain hung behind. The girl takes note of 
this yet how should she guess that these rough 
beginnings are the corner-stone of a future 
empire which shall rule the world. She takes 
note, and dwells a little upon how it may seem 
behind those walls; but her attention quickly 
flies to something nearer; for she has come up- 
on her wild, self-planted garden. 

Forget-me-nots here crowd the brook's 
moist margin ; the blue of heaven has painted 
their soft eyes; their rosy buds speak of the 
dawn of life? of day? the year? — 'tis all the 
same; joyous, exultant, a promise of what may 
be. Purple violets hide in dewy, playful shy- 
ness neath their spreading leaves or nestle 
close to the forget-me-nots as though to say: 
"Now which of us is which — say, mortal, can 

58 



Sixth Leaf 

you tell? The shrines in this fair land need 
never lack for offerings while we are here ; for 
together we are Hope and Promise ; and these 
are given to mortals by the Gods: therefore 
'tis fit that we should be returned to our own 
place — the door of Paradise — and on the 
shrine breath our sweet prayers with thine, to 
Her who holds us in Her bosom through all 
the dark months of the year." And as she 
gathers, they sway and jostle whispering 
u Pick me- — and me — and me" 'til she has filled 
her hands with more than she can need. Then 
kissing those near by which she must leave be- 
hind; promising faithfully to return ''to-mor- 
row"; she turns her back upon the hill, its 
frowning crest, its azure canopy, and dances 
back to her own home, which is the last house 
at this end of the village. 

Straight through the wide open door, to 
where the Altar with its delicately cut stone 
figure, stands against the wall, she lays the 
flowers at the feet of the smiling, benignant 
Goddess and turns with a heart of peace to 
take up her daily tasks. 

To facilitate her movements she draws the 

59 



Stray Leaves 

skirt of her one garment up somewhat, 
through the girdle which she wears, clasped 
with bronze, its curiously wrought straps pass- 
ing over the shoulders to return around the 
waist. Her bare feet patter lightly here and 
there and as if by magic, the disorder of the 
night is changed into the simple order of the 
day. 

Then she turns her attention to the hearth 
where the various implements of bronze or 
baked earth lie scattered, and begins to place 
them in their proper order. 

In these houses the hearth holds the place 
of honor in the center of the room, while a 
round opening in the roof serves for chimney. 
Passing over a rude wheel hung from bronze 
brackets set in this opening, the pot-hook 
chain with its great bronze pot swings above 
the fire. 

'Tis to the pot she first gives her care. Stop- 
ping only to pick up a little rush mat, very 
thick and soft, which her brother has woven, 
that she may kneel with comfort at her work, 
she bears the pot outside the door and scrubs 
it well with sand and water from the spring ; 

60 



Sixth Leaf 

then trips back with it and places it in its own 
socket on the hearth. 

She loves this hearth ; 'tis a source of unfail- 
ing admiration for, in the cool winter even- 
ings, her brother had cut a border all around 
of fruits and flowers and animals. It mattered 
not that she did not like to ask just what crea- 
tures of their woods and fields all these might 
be; they were animals, that she could see; and 
it was very wonderful that he cut them out of 
stone. 

The pot in place, its hook and chain 
drawn over and fastened to a staple at one side 
somewhat above her head upon the wall, and 
the other vessels cleaned and set in order, she 
sees by the line of sunlight on the floor (so 
near the door-sill that it must very soon pass 
out) the day has come to noon. 

With her little rush mat and her skirt 
turned well above her knees, she kneels to 
blow the smouldering embers into life and pre- 
pare the meal her brother will be eager for 
now very soon. Only some lentils boiled and 
salted very little — for salt is hard to get — 
some bits of dough which she prepares, baked 

61 



Stray Leaves 

in the hot ashes; a vial of oil to dress these 
with; yet it all seems so good she wishes her 
brother would hurry, for she is hungry and 
she knows he must be too. 

Again she kneels to draw the cakes from out 
the ashes, the lentils from the fire ; so eager 
she cannot take time to fasten back a lock of 
red gold hair which will fall across her face 
just as she wants to see. She kneels — and 
stops — one cake but half drawn from the fire. 
What is this she feels ? She sits upon her heels, 
every sense alert ; she drags the rush mat from 
under her tender knees and presses their 
smooth white domes upon the earthen floor. 
Her face flushes and pales — the knees are not 
the messengers she needs ; she presses the 
palms of her hands upon the floor, then stoop- 
ping lower, lays her ear upon it. This tells 
the truth — there is no mistaking now — 'tis not 
an earthquake but the approach of many 
horses which cause the earth to tremble. She 
knows the direction too — along the road from 
that frowning battlemented hill. What do 
they want here? Their passing bodes no good, 
their stopping, certain ill. Well does she 

62 



Sixth Leaf 

know how like hawks they've swept down up- 
on outlying towns and farms ! Where is her 
brother! Has he not heard! She springs to 
the door — along the side of the little house 
from where she can see him in his field, shrieks 
to him, he pays no heed. He too is bending 
with his ear upon the ground — ah — he has 
heard ! She sees his lithe form straighten, she 
sees the look upon his face as quickly gather- 
ing his peaceful implements he turns and runs 
swiftly towards her. That is enough — she 
does not tarry; but entering the house takes 
down from where it hangs upon the wall, their 
father's rusty sword, tearing her hands in her 
hurried efforts to unclasp the sharp-tined 
buckles. She is ready for him as he enters. 
Throwing his tools aside, he helps her clasp 
the stiff old belt about his naked waist. 

No words are spoken but they note the 
young men running from the fields on every 
hand ; and by the time the belt is fastened and 
the youth has drawn his weapon and glanced 
it over, a party of his comrades — equipped 
like himself or still in the act of fastening 
their buckles — come running toward this end 

63 



Stray Leaves 

of the village. He steps quickly to meet them; 
she, following at a little distance, intent, while 
the young men discuss the possibilities and 
their means of defense if such should prove 
necessary. 

The shaking of the earth which has brought 
them all together has now developed to the 
distinct clatter of many hoofs and looking 
down the road, there can be clearly distin- 
guished the clouds of dust thrown up by gal- 
loping horses and through it, under that bril- 
liant sun, the glint of helm, of spear, of shield 
and cuirass. This is not a friendly party. 

The sight decides action. Springing back 
into the house, the brother begins to haul 
down the long pot-hook chain, while his fel- 
lows rush off to do the same. For the first 
time he speaks to her; — "Little sister you can- 
not stay here — the house stands alone and I 
could not defend it without help. 'Tis not our 
goods they want, 'tis ourselves and you, my sis- 
ter — oh my sister!" — almost with a sob he 
speaks it "you know the fate." She bows her 
head; she knows only too well. "Come" — he 
winds the heavy chain about him and seizes 

64 



Sixth Leaf 

her by the hand. "Come ! Be brave little one, 
we may be able to stand, but I must leave you 
safe with the other women first— we have but 
one chance." Thus he speaks, panting, as they 
speed along the road towards that part of the 
village where the houses stand close together. 
She utters not a word but already she feels his 
- death stroke piercing through her heart. To 
make a stand ! Others have done that before ; 
the end was always the same. But she will not 
let him know her fears, she will not say a word 
or even let him see her face, lest the terror 
which she knows is written there should shake 
his nerve. 

With a hasty kiss, he leaves her there 
among the huddled, terror stricken women, 
and hastens back to where the young men are 
hastily constructing a check — weak though it 
may be, but a check, which may give them a 
slight advantage — of the pot-chains they have 
gathered, fastened as securely as time will per- 
mit, between two houses facing across the vil- 
lage street. The chains are set close together; 
some, longer than the rest, hastily woven 
through the level strands the better to resist 

65 



Stray Leaves 

the shock of horse so rapidly approaching as 
now to show the features of the riders and all 
the details of their full accoutrement. 

So, behind their fragile fortress the naked 
youths take stand, their rusty blades in hand, 
furious, determined, hopeless. 

A sudden rush — a laughing battle cry — a 
cloud of blinding dust, a half smothered invo- 
cation to the God of Life and Justice — the 
shock of horse against the netted chains, the 
clatter of their falling riders, furious exclama- 
tions of surprise and rage, keen filing of 
swords between the protecting chains, piercing 
here, gashing there; men, horses, anything to 
build up a barrier between themselves and 
their dread foes. 

Short-lived success! The attacking party 
retreat for a moment to escape the blinding 
dust, the surge of men and horses heaped in 
front, to take in clearly the situation. Why it 
is nothing ! They care no more for dying com- 
rades than for dying foes ; the thing they want 
is all. 

Another rush the fragile chains give way — 
and the end is just what all the others were. 

66 



Sixth Leaf 

What use for the old men to struggle out to 
help their dying sons, to save their trembling 
daughters ? And yet they try ! So strong with- 
in the parent heart the feeling that it must pro- 
tect! 

No longer can the women bear the terror 
and suspense ; each believes she hears the voice 
of him dearest, calling her name in his death 
agony. Reckless of everything save that they 
are needed ; forgetting, women-like, all dan- 
ger to themselves in this one thought, they 
come flocking towards the hapless scene of 
their undoing. 

And she who danced so gayly to pick heav- 
en's flowers at the dawn — now bathes her feet 
in the blood of those who were her friends, 
and knows it not. She seeks for One. The 
love between these two was such as few have 
known. She had no lover, he no sweetheart; 
each to the other, was the world. 

She finds him ; tangled among the broken 
chains, close to the last warrior he has slain ; 
his sword still held in iron grip, though death 
is veiling his face in grey and the great wounds 
he does not think of, show his fate is sealed. 

6 7 



Stray Leaves 

With a wordless cry she flings herself across 
his breast; kisses him — talks to him — brushes 
the damp hair from his brow — tears a strip 
from her garment and strives to bind the 
hopeless wounds. He lives enough to look 
at her; and all the love of their young life 
together, all the fire of his longing to protect, 
rise to his glazing eyes; to hold back for a 
moment death's finger-marks. 

He whispers: — u Little sister take the 
sword." But as she stoops nearer to catch his 
words, a great hand seizes her girdle from 
behind, another, her gleaming mass of hair; 
and ruthlessly she is thrown across the sad- 
dle-bow of a rider whose face she cannot see, 
and borne shrieking from her Heart's Com- 
panion, along the road, her head hanging low 
on one side of the galloping horse, her blood- 
stained feet beating against his sinewy should- 
er on the other; each blow but inciting him 
to greater speed, which racks her poor body 
as though it must surely break. 

Madly she struggles to free herself, even to 
fling herself upon the road which flies below 
her head. Each well-known spot seen by her 

68 



Sixth Leaf 

inverted eyes becomes a thing of horror, a 
fresh source of agony and despair. She tries 
to seize her captor's swinging scabbard and 
draw herself up, with some half mad idea in 
her whirling brain that by this means she may 
use his own weapon upon him. Vain efforts ! 
His iron hand holds her girdle buckle fast and 
presses her back to her swinging with the 
horse's stride. And woven in with all these 
tortures, becoming each moment the keenest 
of them all, the thought and fear of out- 
rage. 

In all her free, clean, innocent existence, no 
impure thought had crossed her soul or cast a 
cloud upon the sweetness of her Spring. The 
tales she'd heard of evil done elsewhere, had 
filled her with a nameless dread, an aching 
pity; and now this thing had come to her! 
She must escape ! She know T s now why her 
brother said "the sword' 1 — why had she wait- 
ed to hear more? Where were the Gods? 
Could they look on and see their temple dese- 
crated, their poor child tortured? 

A patch of blue, a dash of violet — the 
murmur of the brook sounding softly even 

69 



Stray Leaves 

through the drumming of her ears — her gard- 
en ! Hope and Promise ! Stretching her arms 
out toward the flying blossoms she cries aloud : 
— " Mother, blessed mother Ceres, help me! 
Let not thy temple be defiled! Help me 
Mother! Mother—!" And in the agony 
of her demand she raises herself almost to the 
level of the saddle. The horse, startled by 
her sudden cry, makes a mad plunge forward. 
Her prayer is answered for, by the force 
of that great bound, her stiffened form flung 
sharply back, the slender neck is snapped, and 
the poor little body lies limp under the cruel 
hand still holding it. 



What are the signs of the Spring's fair 
coming? Who knows the secret hour when 
the Earth shall wake? What hand is laid 
upon the hard packed earth, what voice bids 
it make way for the nestling seeds to sprout 
and grow, held in her darkened bosom 
through all the long, grey months of Win- 
ter's reign, asleep ? What strange, what mag- 

70 



Sixth Leaf 

ic current rouses them to a sense that some- 
where in their hearts is life? — that some- 
where beyond this pressing waste of soil are 
light, and air, and rain ? Can any tell? 

By what signs shall we know the waking 
Soul ? May not its darkest hour, its greatest 
failure, be born as the quiverings within the 
seed, from the close presence of its dawn ? 

Dropped on the surface of the sodden 
spheres, on that chill Autumn when the Gates 
of Paradise were left behind; it sinks deeper 
and deeper as do the seeds, and the soil of 
darkness and illusion packs closer, ever closer 
round it; until that hour when at last, close 
to the Mother heart, it wakes to find that its 
long Winter's past, the dawn of Spring is 
close at hand. Yet how is this — can any tell ? 

Truly each waking Soul knows well the se- 
cret. It is the same for all. Let but one ray 
of that which holds within the True, pierce 
through the packed crust of Earth's dense 
darkness, bringing with it the sure convic- 
tion that purity, that truth, that innocence are 
of the Law; not passing shadows without 
substance, as some would claim in these latter 

7i 



Stray Leaves 

days; and however great the pain may be to 
the bursting husk and feeble, struggling shoot, 
to pierce beyond the veil of ignorance, creed, 
false pride, false modesty, false dignity, false 
hopes, which have so long oppressed it, the 
Soul must rise at last into those pure, perfect 
airs where searching becomes finding, where 
to Be, is to know. 



7^ 



REVERIE 

We watch the changing seasons come and 
go; we see the verdure waken, flourish, flow- 
er, bear seed and die ?— sleep ?— feeling that 
somewhere there is a lesson here, or better 
still, a lovely tale whose unfoldment, could we 
but touch the spring, would be more beautiful 
than any yet enscribed by poet's pen, or sung 
in snatches by earth's passing seers. 

A teacher here and there whose aeolian 
strings of thought are tuned more nearly than 
the mass, to the great harp o'er which heav- 
en's breezes play, has passed the vibration on 
of this great song in hint, in metaphor, in 
parable; and yet our dull ears will not seem 
to hear, our unstrung hearts refuse to an- 
swer. 

The humble Nazarine, the patient Buddha, 
the wise Confucius, and even misguided, war- 

73 



Stray Leaves 

like Mohammed, have sensed this mystery- — 
this link of gold which holds all phases of de- 
velopment and all the changing lives of 
spheres and souls within one perfect order, 
one great fellowship — so that, could we but 
see and hold the process of the tiny seed's 
awakening, growth, unfoldment, its sources 
of inspiration and sustaining, we should have 
come upon the type of all the working of that 
Good Law to which great and small, human 
or divine, are but the steps made, tone by tone, 
of its universal harmony. 

'Tis not alone the waking to a sense of lat- 
ent life that forces the tiny seed to burst its 
scaly husk and push its tender shoot 
up through the surrounding soil. It 
must have lain for just so long, asleep; 
it must have suffered from just so much 
restriction — according to its nature. The 
melting snows of the northern Winter, or the 
soaking rains of the tropics' clime must have 
sunk down to circle and feed it, carrying 
something of the vital essence of the sun and 
air whose messengers they are. Nor is this 
all. These may suckle the little struggling 

74 



Sixth Leaf 

thing but, without the sun's warm rays to call 
it forth from above, it would only stir within 
its prison house and truly die, and rot, and 
pass away. 

But once waken in it this desire to fight its 
way through all impediments to that it feels 
divine, although as yet it cannot see and stand 
to it face to face, it is a tender, fragile, deli- 
cately-tissued form that pushes up through 
the hard earth which had imprisoned the firm 
seed; not a harsh, stiff, iron point, which bat- 
tles fiercely and tears its way in sheer self-will 
and harsh determination. 

And after it has met the Spring sun's kiss, 
what is its life ? 

A joyous growth, and ecstatic expansion 
toward the source of inspiration. But its roots 
lie deep within the loam made up of all its 
dead and transformed pasts. From these it 
draws the sustenance of its form and the in- 
stinct of its class, while the ideal of its bloom 
and its perfection, descends upon it from the 
Lord towards whom it lifts its fluttering hands 
in gratitude and worship. 

Is not this the story of the Soul? Draw- 

75 



Stray Leaves 

ing nourishment from the loam (experience) 
made up of fallen leaves of many lives — can 
any richer soil be found? — its inspiration from 
the source divine which lifts and gently draws 
at last, all things to itself. 

Storms of wind and rain may come in 
Spring, in Summer: but the plant need not 
lose heart for, once its purpose is defined, 
these only help to increase its strength and 
dignify its life. 

And stopping thus to view the workings 
of the Law, I see "my Soul and I," on that 
harsh day when death saved us from what 
had been a far more bitter fate, as just two 
tender shoots growing from one parent root; 
having all about us the earth of what we'd 
been ; drawing from this store-house the food 
we long had failed to find and, in ourselves 
the promise of future growth in that, to us, 
simplicity, innocence and courage, were our 
expression of the True. 



76 



SEVENTH LEAF 

"Thou shalt not let thy senses make a play- 
ground of the mind." 

THE SEVEN PORTALS 



"True knowledge is the flour, false learn- 
ing is the husk. If thou would'st eat the bread 
of Wisdom, thy flour thou hast to knead with 
Immortality's clear waters. But if thou knead- 
est husks with Illusion's dew, thou canst cre- 
ate but food for the black doves of death, the 
birds of birth, decay, and sorrow." 

THE TWO PATHS 



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SEVENTH LEAF 



Ah Ah- 

My Soul. 
Ah Ah- 



White are thy feet! 
Ah 

Ahi Ahi 

They tread ! 
Ahi Ahi 



My heart's pavement! 
Ahi 



Ah Ah- 

My Soul. 

Ah Ah- 

Dance on ! 
Ah 



79 



Stray Leaves 

Like snow are the palace's arches; like 
frost-work their traceries. Polished the mar- 
ble floors — mirrors for dancing feet — soft 
are the carpets. Swarthy the lords who sit 
watching the dancers ; sweet is the music. 

See how they come — houris, trooping to 
please, lords of the palaces, lords of the des- 
ert, princes from distant lands all here as- 
sembled. 

Rich are the perfumes; attar of roses, jas- 
mine, sandalwood; flowers in the hair of 
the enthralling dancers. 

"Ah— Ah— My Soul! White are thy 
feet!" 

Keep time musicians, let them dance faster! 
Where is the queen of all, that the Prince 
yonder, sitting so silent, unmoved, may be 
startled ? 

Here, here she comes! Now nobles, hold 
your hearts well for she's mine, I have bought 
her! White as the snow of her far distant 
mountains, golden her hair as their peaks at 
the sunrise; blue are her eyes as the flowers 
of their valleys. Hold your hearts well, lest 
they break at her coming. 

80 



Seventh Leaf 

"Ahi — Ahi — Ahi — the poor captive I" 

Low sinks the music as breezes through 
palm trees ; sad is the strain the captive must 
dance to ; lowered her white lids, the blue eyes 
are hidden lest the tears falling should anger 
her Buyer. Here she sways, there she sways, 
wildly applauded. 

u Ahi — Ahi — Thy feet tread my heart's 
pavement!" 

Eyes blue as hers fastened upon her; set 
in a face which though swarthy grows tender. 

"Ah— Ah— My Soul ! Dance on !" 

Blue eyes still gazing upon her enraptured; 
love light they flash to her, flash through the 
fringed veil of her lids so downcast; 'til her 
lids lifting to sudden responding, eye speaks 
to eye and heart speaks to heart. 

Ah, her heart's captive! 

Quick to her cheek flows the warm red of 
roses, red of the roses that bloom in the Sum- 
mer, sighs fill her breast 'neath its gossamer 
mantle; sighs she would stifle, sighs as she 
dances. 

Flushed is the face of the Prince who'd 



81 



Stray Leaves 

been silent, bright are his eyes though no word 
is spoken. 

Quick to her side, with one bound from 
reclining; about her his arm flung as he stops 
her dancing. Strange are his tones as he 
cries: — u She is mine, she is mine! Nor care 
I who bought her!" 

Fiercely the Lord of the palace arises, 
fiercely he calls on his friends to stand by 
him. 

"What is this insult you fling on my shelter ! 
What this betrayal of salt you have eaten ! 
Loose your hold — she is mine ; I have bought 
her!" 

"Not so," the silent Prince eagerly answers. 
"Not so," he exclaims, "for I too can pur- 
chase. You may not deny to a guest his 
heart's wishes. Hear me, I'll pay to the half 
of my kingdom. She is mine before heaven; 
I have looked and I know her!" 

Fierce the dispute which now is arising; 
jargon of voices, keen weapons flashing. 

"You may not refuse him," cry some; oth- 
ers, "Kill the bold stranger !" 

Vainly he strives to be heard in the tumult ; 
82 



Seventh Leaf 

as they press on him springs his sword from 
its scabbard. "Fools," he cries; "to demur 
and dispute and not listen. Fools ! Follow 
who can and pay me her ransom !" 

Swift as the desert's simoon he has caught 
her, close to his breast in his strong arms' safe 
shelter. Out through the arches he passes so 
quickly, scarcely they know he has gone. 
Astounded they are at his daring. 

Then a wild cry of rage and they all follow 
after. The white steed that bore him is gone ; 
and only the clatter of hoofs in the distance 
is left them as farewell or guide for their 
hunting. 

Small use to pursue when their steeds are 
ready, yet furious they mount and determined 
to follow press on o'er the road's moonlit sur- 
face, on — on ! 

The clatter of hoofs grow fainter and 
fainter; the steed knows its master, does it 
know its mistress? Its great heart beats 
high, rejoicing to speed o'er the pathways it's 
traveled a stranger ; for it knows that "home" 
lies at the end of this journey, and the voice 
that it loves encourages ever while the cries 

83 



Stray Leaves 

from behind, growing faint in the distance 
make it lift its head high with the pride of its 
prowess. 

Ah, gallant horse, gallant heart ! True as 
none other save these which it bears to their 
far distant haven of peace, love and rest which 
they have long sighed for, where all pains 
forgotten, joy only shall triumph! 



O white Dove, my Bride, draw near; 
Whisper thy low note to me that I may hear 
The music of thy voice, be wrapt in dreams 

with thee ; 
O White Dove, my Bride! 
At thy step's light fall I glow, I live, I start 

in ecstacy 
To greet thee, to hold thee in my arms ! To 

what shall I liken thee — 
How describe thy charms? Nought is there 

beneath Ahura Mazda's day 
That can be thy counterpart; nay, 
All that's lovely in earth, air or sky, 
In ocean's blue expanse or hidden caves, has 

rendered tribute to thy charms 

84 



Seventh Leaf 

And must, for aye. 

For ah thy Soul, thy Soul is deep, and wide, 

and sweet — 
My treasure-house, my land, my sea ! 
There would I dwell leaving life's frenzied 

dream 
For those realities which thy Soul holds for 

me. 
Flower of the Pomegranate, come! Barest 

thou vie 
With lips which know but to speak love's 

poetry, 
To sigh out heaven's blessings ? 
Tall lilies swaying by the fountain's brim, 

stand ye erect as my Queen goes by. 
Tall and fair ye are; but ye are bound to 

earth, your perfume spending 
Lavishly upon the garden's air while she, 
Like Summer breezees o'er the flowers sigh- 
ing, leaves benediction 
Where e'er her tender feet in passing, press 

the smallest thing. 
Ah lilies, bow your heads before my Queen ! 
Rare odors of the forest trees, know ye the 

sweetness of her breath, 

85 



Stray Leaves 

The perfume of her hair? Know ye the life 

her kisses bring, the wealth they are 
To those who may possess them ? 
Bid her press them upon your rough bark, as 

on my lips, my cheeks, my hair, 
And know for one short moment what life is, 

that she imparts. 
Yet fly not far White Dove, my Bride ; stay, 

stay! 
Mine, mine thou art; and I but live when 

thou art near — 
Must die, if thou depart. 



"Great Sifter" is the name of the Heart 
Doctrine. 

Let us pause my Soul, let us consider what 
deeds are great, what promptings true. 

Surely the Soul may claim its own? Can 
any hand in justice stay its meeting? In 
what lay hidden that subtle flaw which, mar- 
ring the crystal purity we sought, grew ever 
greater 'til with sudden snap the Soul was 
rent again asunder at the very moment when 

86 



Seventh Leaf 

it seemed united. The tiny pebble which, cast 
into the placid bosom of the Law's calm sea, 
caused ripples to widen, widen ever to Its 
vast verge, that only in returning could find 
quiet once again. 

Truly the Soul may claim its own ; it must, 
indeed, be One again at last. But, can unity 
be gained through strife? Can true peace be 
won through blind aggressiveness ? Can wil- 
ful disregard of others' rights establish ours? 
Nay! For peace aggressively declared, but 
surely sows the seed of future wars ; self-will, 
but faster breeds the spawn of selfishness; the 
disregard of others' claims, slight though they 
be, but checks them for the time — the while 
they gather strength to mar the future, to 
destroy the labors of the past. 

Then see my Soul. Had we but paused to 
hear Truth's voice proclaim the justice due 
to him who "bought," had we but stayed to 
pay that debt, there had been no flaw; the 
blighted seed had not been sown anew, the 
ripples had not spread, whispering to the Law 
our thoughtlessness, our reckless disregard of 
Its decrees. 

87 



Stray Leaves 

Far have we wandered since, in our ignor- 
ance we deemed our journey done. And only 
now our eyes discern how the impetuous un- 
reason of a moment so frayed the twisted 
strands of our true unity, as that they parted 
yet again to flutter aimlessly (?) upon the 
far-sighing breath of causes for a time. 



88 



REVERIE 



And so the chapter closes of waving palm, 
thickets of rose, desert sands, or temple walls. 
And now, the scene is changed to lands of 
frost and snow; to rock-bound coasts and 
dangerous seas; to lands of effort, struggle, 
little ease, much longing, seeking — finding? 
Ah, what's to be the accomplishment of these ? 

My Soul, my Soul ! our errors hedge us 
round. Our virtues — so few as yet — stand 
by and wait their opportunity for larger 
growth. 

Too quickly do the Soul's blossoms bud and 
bloom for good and ill where nature's ample 
hand gives freely of her treasures to the 
frame. Too easily the heart is lead and 
swayed by loves born of scented breezes, by 
passions rushing across the Soul's desert places 
to bury under shifting sand the fair cities she 

89 



Stray Leaves 

has builded. Buried so deep, they are long 
forgotten ; but, their treasure must some time 
see light of day again, when, grown older, 
wiser, by the frost's restriction, we've gath- 
ered strength and courage to delve and find 
our rich stores so long hidden. 

'Tis not enough to be a child, living from 
day to day, loving, hating, happy, angered. 
Nay, we must grow to man's estate ; develop 
fortitude, patience, courage, discernment; 
and these are only won through lessons 
learned of cramping hardship prolonged, 
prolonged until such time as we may find that 
life is Real, that we are IT and finding, seize 
our vessel's helm- — the vessel of the Heart— 
with steady hand, to steer it safely to those 
shores of Truth which are our own. 



90 



EIGHTH LEAF 



" 'The cloak of darkness is upon the deep 
of matter; within its folds I struggle. Be- 
neath my gaze it deepens, Lord; it is dispelled 
beneath the waving of thy hand. A shadow 
moveth, creeping like the stretching serpent 
coils. ... It grows, swells out, and dis- 
appears in darkness.' " 

"It is the shadow of thyself outside the 
Path, cast on the darkness of thy sins." 

THE SEVEN PORTALS 



EIGHTH LEAF 

Ice-bound the fjord; the cliffs stand high 
and dark around. 

Crackles the ice under the North-King's bit- 
ter breath. 

Gleams and glistens the frozen surface be- 
neath the far sun's cold white rays, which 
warm not. 

Stark are the pines beneath their snowy 
mantles, the forest trees are dead and leaf- 
less. 

Great Silence broods o'er all the land; so 
still that e'en the noiseless moving things are 
heard if they but stir. But they are wise — 
they sleep. 

'Tis man alone who dares tempt sound in 
the white spaces. 'Tis man alone who dares 
with laugh and shout, to mock the awful calm 
that holds the fjord. 

93 



Stray Leaves 

Is it not his to pleasure on in Summer days ? 
To battle with and master in the storm ? Why 
not his play-ground then, when held enslaved 
by icy bonds? 

True, man alone, seeking his pleasures or 
his gains, defies the season's ordered march 
and laughs at Nature's lessons of repose. 



Ho there ! — son of his father ; see the boy 
skimming and glancing across the green ice- 
beds. Tall and fair; fair as Baldur the beau- 
tiful; bold and free; bold as Wotan the 
Wanderer. Fearless and daring, true son of 
his father; fearless as Thor who laughs, as 
his hammer flung far, strikes out lightning 
and thunder. Who is the boy? 'Tis Oulf 
the young Viking. He shouts with delight 
at the mere strength he feels, as the blood 
dances through veins blue as Summer skies. 

Who is this, that beside him, tries in vain 
to keep pace with his tireless skating ? Dark 
as Hunig; not like him strong, a warrior. No, 
he is puny and small ; pale-faced and halting 

94 



Eighth Leaf 

. . . bitter his heart that he may not 
keep pace with his fellows in sports or in war; 
deep is thewound at Oulf's careless cry, u Come 
Foundling be merry. What man should spend 
all his days in the grove, with the priests, 
learning secrets ? 'Tis better to laugh and to 
shout and to fight, as do Viking's." Sullen he 
answers, "I like not fighting, let beasts fight; 
I like not idle sports, they are for fools." 

And so was brought forth in the light of 
the cold Winter sun, which warms not, the 
bitterness lurking between these; and the 
quarrel that morning saw, went on through 
the years, harsh and cold, bitter, 
like the fjord's current fast bound neath its 
wintry mantle. 



Wind moans and sighs and shrieks about 
the "House." The fjord is free to work its 
own wild will. The northern sun throws a 
ruddy glow across its heaving bosom ; but the 
hurrying clouds hide more and more his face ; 
darken his smile. 

95 



Stray Leaves 

Oh, but the wind is a fierce woer ! . . . 
and he is near at hand. His kisses raise a 
tempest in the free fjord's depths and he 
shouts to her, "Come on, come on to the open 
sea. Let us play with the little ships and 
make them dance and turn. This is the sport 
the fjord and the wind may have together." 
And the fjord laughs; it rises to the wind 
and dashes in wild joy against the rocky 
shore; . . . up, up it leaps and bathes 
their set grey faces in sheets of foam. 

Night! 

Louder howls the wind, higher leaps the 
fjord; terror, terror to him who creeps along 
the pathway by the cliffs. 

Here is a plaything for the storm. The 
wind wraps him round; it holds him strug- 
gling in its embrace; far down below the 
fjord waits dark, eager, to hide him in its 
depths. 

Fiercely he struggles ; but he is puny ; the 
wind is strong; the fjord is waiting. Ter- 
ror, terror! 

He calls aloud ; dimly he sees the lights of 
the "House" glimmer through the dark. He 

96 



Eighth Leaf 

shouts . . . but who shall hear; the 
wind shouts too and hurls him over 
down ... to the fjord? He knows 
not. 

Yet was his voice heard. The wind bore 
it with its wild sweep ; flung it in the face of 
one who could hear ; for he loved the storm ; 
loved to battle with it; to laugh with it; to 
shout with and conquer it. What house could 
hold him on a night like this? 

He heard the shout ; and quick he thought, 
u, Tis the Foundling; he has not come in." 
Then in his heart a tumult rose. "To help? 
Bah! he is so wise in secrets; let him 
say some magic word; let him quell 
the storm. Ha ! ha ! the puny Found- 
ling ! He has said, again and over, his pow- 
er to conquer is more than mine. I can but 
fight as Vikings do; he can fight with spells 
and prayers and fire as do the priests. Let 
him fight his way ; I will not go." 

Does the storm sleep? So still, so still. 
Why? 

In the stillness he listens ; straining his ears 
he hears his own heart beat; straining his 

97 



Stray Leaves 

ears for what? A dull foot-fall on the cliff- 
path. No sound comes. Has he conquered, 
that other ? Nay, was the wind weary ; stop- 
ping alone to gather strength for this fierce 
blast which now rocks the "House"' to its cel- 
lar; beats back the listener; shrieks in his 
ear, — "He is gone ; I have mastered, . . 

. the fjord holds him." 

"Not gone, not gone to the fjord while I 
waited; not gone while I waited to laugh at 
his learning; poor puny Foundling, a toy of 
the wind I can master. I will find him." 

Through the darkness he rushes, his heart 
fierce and eager. Right or wrong ? He cares 
not, he heeds not. Battling on through the 
storm which hungers to hold him; striving 
on through the blackness of night, unafraid; 
his sole guide the sound of the voice he had 
heard. Foot-sure, as the wolf that speeds to 
his den; no stop 'till he reaches the spot his 
keen ear had well fixed. He waits there 
and waits. Then, close to the 
edge he throws himself; he strives to pierce 
the blackness below, to the fjord, which he 
hears surging, booming, between the high 

98 



Eighth Leaf 

cliffs. Keen every sense, alert. 
What is his guide ? Is it scent like the wolf's ? 
Is it sight like the cat's which pierces the 
dark ? Who knows ; he does not. He warily 
creeps o'er the edge of the cliff and clamber- 
ing down feels . . . feels for Some- 
thing he knows has been caught on a ledge, 
to rest there awhile 'til, waking from swoon it 
shall stir, to roll over . . . down — ■ 
down ! He turns sick at the thought. 

He finds him; safely lifts on one arm; 
then, slowly climbs back. Stumbling — well 
nigh lost — safe again — panting, breathless, 
o'er weighted, to the path which leads home. 

Where the torches flare in the supper-hall 
and the flames dance high from the great log 
fire, the Mother waits. Where is her son; 
what daring has seized on his heart this wild 
night ? Well she knows how the tempest calls 
his dauntless soul forth, to battle and strive 
and to master. She holds her heart steady. 

But the other, whom as a babe, left alone, 
she had saved from the terrors of war; why 
should he tarry? Her heart yearns in pity 
o'er the Foundling she had reared. 

99 



LrfCL: 



Stray Leaves 

Steps in the hall; a gust which all but 
quenches the torches ; pale, tempest-tossed, in 
his arms the Foundling unconscious, her son 
stands before her; at her feet lays his bur- 
den. 

"Mother, you love, I have brought him." 



At the prow of his good ship he stands, as 
she speeds o'er the Northern seas ; the chant 
of the oarsmen, bending to their stroke, 
sounds in his ears. Crisp is the breeze filling 
the tough sail; the waters sparkle. 

With his great hand he shades his eyes; 
his heart bounds strangely ; for the far line of 
blue that comes nearer with each mighty 
stroke of the oarsmen, he knows well. On it 
his keen sight is fixed ; he sees it change from 
blue to grey, from grey to green of trees, to 
brown of earth, to sandy beach, to cliffs that 
flank the fjord. The ship sweeps on. 

A giant he ; great limbs, great shoulders. 
Under his helm the hair gleams golden. Blue 
his eyes like the fjord in Summer. Tanned by 

ioo 



Eighth Leaf 

the wind and sun; muscles as tough as oak; 
strong as the Northern bear; still in his first 
youth. 

Now the oarsmen raise the home-chant; 
his heart bounds forward, bounds far ahead ; 
it seeks the shore, it seeks those he loves. 

Deep in the vessel's hold much treasure is 
hidden. Many a stroke has he dealt to own 
it ; fiercely has he battled, much blood he has 
shed. Rich stuff for the Mother, rare jewels 
for "Her" to adorn herself with. "Her!" 
His heart softens. Aye the Mother is noble 
and strong, of much honor. But She! 

she is his life, his heart, his whole 
being. Young and tender, gentle of mien. 
In her eyes his soul wakes; in her heart he 
rests from the fight and fierce striving; in 
her soul he finds the gift of immortals. His 
wife! 

"Hush your song oarsmen, we draw near 
the shore! Of our coming they shall know 
nought 'til we stand before them. Great will 
be the rejoicing; fires will be lighted ; my peo- 
ple will shout, 'He has come again 
our Chief, from beyond the dark waters ; he 

IOI 



Stray Leaves 

has come with much honor, with glory and 
treasure!' We shall see how the fast-flying 
news will bring them flocking to hail the brave 
ones they wait for." 

Grates the ship's keel on white sand of the 
fjord's bed; out springs the Chief, out spring 
the oarsmen, the warriors. Bidding them 
draw her up on the sandy beach, he strides 
landward. Up to their thighs in water the 
oarsmen, the warriors, seize the good ship 
with strong hands, to draw her forward. She 
shivers with joy at the home-coming. 

Red, the early sun glows on the stone huts 
of the fisher- folk; straggles the foot-path over 
the dunes toward the "House;" its chimneys 
rise above them. 

What is this ! The song of the boatmen as 
they haul the ship ashore brings no stir to the 
fisher huts. All is still. Doors do not open ; 
none come forward to greet the warriors. 
Oulf wonders. Then, a pale face looks out 
from a window; it draws back; the sheep- 
skin that covers the opening falls again. 
Oulf is angry. 

"What do these fools fear; do they not 
102 



Eighth Leaf 

know me? Why do none come to bear my 
message to those waiting ?" He calls to a 
warrior, "Go rout these curs out; how dare 
they hang back when I come !" 

Before the warrior reaches the hut which is 
nearest, a fisherman creeps out; he is afraid. 
Over the dunes from the house, comes One 
running. Running and stopping he comes; 
he reels ; presses forward. The oarsmen, the 
warriors, murmur together; they are troubled. 

Nearer the runner comes; Oulf knows no 
fear as he sees him ; the warriors murmur to- 
gether, "'Tis an ill homecoming." Oulf does 
not hear them ; he is watching the runner. He 
knows him well; he is a house-man, long 
trusted. Pale is the man, his garments dis- 
ordered; fear on his face is written; fear and 
despair. He falls at Oulf's feet; with his 
hands, clasps them. "Master," he mutters, 
"Master I" nor dares look up ; on the sand he 
lies face downward. Then in Oulf's heart is 
born something, something he has never 
known before. Fear ! Fury, anger, 

rage, seize him. "Up, carl !" He shakes himself 
free from the man's grasp. "Up, speak — what 

103 



Stray Leaves 

is it?" The man closer creeps; raising his eyes 
in which horror is written ; shuddering, gasp- 
ing, "Master, kill me — I canont speak it! — I 
cannot!" sinks down again. 

Furious with dread Oulf cries to him, 
"Stand up dog, speak !" Kicks him away with 
his foot; for fierce is this nameless thing 
clutching his heart. Lifting himself, the man 
stammers again, "The Mistress — the Mis- 
tress — the Mother." He who had never 
known fear, now knows that it holds him. He 
speaks; almost a whisper: — "What of the 
Mother?" . . . "She is dead," the free- 
man answers. 

As a great pine which many storms has 
weathered, by some fierce northern blast at 
last is bent, to rise again shuddering to its 
mighty crest; so Oulf shuddered throughout 
his great frame ; with wide eyes stared at the 
freeman. Still he stood, and for long spoke 
no word. Then, "It is enough!" — for great 
was his love for the Mother. The house- 
man faltered again, "'Tis not all Master, the 
Mistress too is — dead." 

Scarce had he spoken when Oulf furious, 
104 



Eighth Leaf 

sprang forward. With his great hands he seized 
him; seized his throat; pressed it — pressed it! 
"You lie, carl! You lie! You lie!" Mad- 
dened he was with the pain, as a beast plung- 
ing from wounds ; blind with the horror. He 
knew not what his hands held. Then his 
henchman strode forward. Mighty he was 
too. He struggled w T ith Oulf's madness; 
loosened the grip of his great hands ; released 
the trembling servant, who sank half dead, at 
their feet. Like a man drunk with wine Oulf 
staggered; reeled backward to where the 
good ship was standing, leaned against her 
prow pale and trembling as a woman. Blood- 
red spots before his eyes were surging; in his 
ears the sound of the ocean; reason was re- 
turning. 

Slowly sight came again; again he heard 
the words through him throbbing. "The Mis- 
tress too is dead." Aye he heard them; but 
what meaning had they? He looked about 
for an answer. He saw the fisherfolk hud- 
dled together; he saw his oarsmen, his war- 
riors, white-faced and silent ; in their eyes he 



105 



Stray Leaves 

read the same message — "The Mistress too 
is dead." 

Long was the silence. Stricken and white 
the Chief stood, like a gash struck in an oak 
by Thor's hammer — Then, "How?" he 
questioned, and waited — His henchman 
bade the man tell his story. 

Heavily sighed the house-man ; broken his 
voice as he took up his story. Silent the fisher- 
folk, silent the oarsmen, the warriors, who 
listened. Silent the henchman, deep was his 
sorrow; silent Oulf waited and listened, his 
good ship upheld him. 

"Woe," said the house-man, "that to me 
should this task be allotted ; woe that my eyes 
have beheld such a night and such carnage. 

"Well you remember, O Oulf, the day you 
departed; well you remember the charge you 
laid on the Foundling; little you thought of 
the treachery lurking within his heart." 

Then spoke the henchman: — u, Twas the 
Lady, the Mother, who asked it; she loved 
him." "Yea," answered the house-man, "but 
the Mistress feared and distrusted." 

Right well Oulf remembered her prayers 
1 06 



Eighth Leaf 

and her tears and her pleading. Much she 
feared the Foundling, much she dreaded 
Oulf's going. But the Mother was old, she 
said she could no longer hold sway as of yore 
over men, over horses and cattle; over women 
and children. The Foundling was wise; the 
people would hear him. To her wishes Oulf 
yielded. 

Well he remembered the day of their part- 
ing. The Mother stood stately and tall in the 
door-way; no age could bend her. The 
Foundling beside her dark, puny, unloving. 
Full in the sunlight his wife fair and gentle. 
Long braids of her golden hair fell o'er her 
shoulders; red were her eyes from the long 
night of weeping; gainst the blue of the robe 
which covered her white breast gleamed the 
small golden token, shaped like Thor's ham- 
mer; Oulf knew not all its meaning. As he 
strode towards the gate, with his stout war- 
riors following, she ran down the steps for 
another farewell. She tripped; the Found- 
ling sprang to aid her; quickly she thrust him 
aside and ran to Oulf's arms. She clung to 
him sobbing ; she raised her great eyes to his ; 

107 



Stray Leaves 

she plead with him not to go, not to leave her 
and the Mother. Almost his heart failed him ; 
how could he leave her. Then fierce rose the 
pride of the Viking, the warrior. Should a 
man stop from wars, forsake his ship and the 
seas, for the tears of a woman ? He kissed her 
and turning strode on fiercely, his men follow- 
ing. 

Well Oulf remembered. 

"Thou hadst not been long gone, O Oulf," 
the house-man continued, "when the Found- 
ling much pride showed to us of the house. 
Long journeys he made 'mongst the people; 
what he said I know not. Then, when the 
Mother called for tribute they murmured ; we 
heard it but she did not; she trusted the 
Foundling. Thou wert long away; he had 
time and to spare. 

"One day he came to the Mother; the 
house she had given he liked not; he must 
dwell with us at the Great House. He came ; 
his wife he left behind him; he came and 
went as he would; he talked with the Mis- 
tress ; she liked it not ; she turned from him ; 
he was angry. 

108 



Eighth Leaf 

"He came to the Mother; he said thou 
wert long gone; the people were grown 
weary ; they wished for a ruler, they wished 
for him to protect them. The Mother asked 
against whom did they seek protection. He 
did not answer. The Mother said: — 'Long 
have I ruled this people; ruled for my lord 
when he was fighting ; ruled for my son when 
a babe, when a man and the seas called him.' 
The Mother said: — 'I rule still.' She turned 
and left the Foundling. Furious he was ; sul- 
len his looks; evil his bearing. We rejoiced 
that he might not rule; we rejoiced that the 
Mother had left him. . . . Too soon. 

. . . After that much evil he did to 
the people; a shepherd he tortured that his 
flock had failed him. This came to the Moth- 
er's ears ; angry she was that her people should 
suffer. She sent for the Foundling. Stern 
was her bearing, sharp her reproof. 'I saved 
you from death; have housed you, fed you, 
cared for you ; you shall not torture my peo- 
ple; you shall not rule in my son's stead; I 
rule.' Again she left him. He said no 
word ; black were his looks as he went out. 

109 



Stray Leaves 

" Again Winter came with its long, dreary 
twilights. Heavy were the storms. The 
Mistress sat apart; she thought of the ship; 
she thought on her lord far away ; greatly she 
pined for his coming, yet he came not. 

"Then came the night of storm and despair. 

. . . We were seated at supper; 
the storm howled without; the fire burned 
bright on the hearth. Heavily the storm 
shook the rafters; the torches flickered 
and flared. At our head sat the Mother; the 
Mistress beside her pale and silent. Our hearts 
were heavy for thy coming ; we called for the 
bard; he should sing us a song of courage, a 
song of daring, a song of the great seas to 
cheer us. . . . He sang. As he sang 
came a cry from without, a great cry at the 
gate. Up we all started; we stood waiting. 
Into the hall rushed a trembling carl; pant- 
ing, fearful, he flung himself at the Mother's 
feet. 'Save yourselves,' he cried, 'they are 
coming, they are coming!' Strong the Moth- 
er stood, tall, the Ruler. Calm as the fjord 
in Summer she questioned, 'Who are coming ? 
What dost thou fear, carl?' The Mistress 

no 



Eighth Leaf 

said nothing; she clasped and unclasped her 
hands. The carl answered, 'The Foundling 
has roused the people ; he has taught them to 
hate thy rule ; he has taught them the Chief 
is dead; he has said he is master; he has 
said he will take his own; the people follow 
him ; they will no longer be ruled by a wom- 
an.' 

"Fearless the Mother heard him. She had 
faced war before; fire, slaughter, pillage. 
Like a warrior she stood; she turned to us; 
she said, 'Make ready.' Swiftly we obeyed. 
Then the Mistress spoke. She said, 'What 
can we do, so few men and we women ?' The 
Mother made answer, 'Go to thy room child, 
no place for thee is the scene of battle.' 

"We seized our weapons; we fortified the 
house quickly; we stood ready. We had not 
long to wait; they came; they battered at 
the door; the voice of the Foundling called 
without. He would enter. The Mother bade 
us stand by; she stepped to the door; she 
threw it wide open; dauntless she stood in 
the glare of the torches; dauntless, bold, the 
Ruler; like Brunhild the Valkyr. She called 
in 



Stray Leaves 

to the Foundling; she spoke to the people; 
she bade them cease the uproar; she bade 
them return to their homes. Furious they 
yelled; they would not return; they would 
not be ruled by women ; their Chief had 
gone over the dark water ; they had found a 
man to lead them ; him they would follow. 

"Then the Foundling, in a voice soft as a 
woman's, spoke. 'You see, I but humor the 
people; they love me, they will follow. Yield 
and no harm shall come to you ; no harm shall 
come to your house-men; no harm shall be- 
fall your women.' 

"Furious, the Mother rose to her great 
height. 'This is my answer,' she said. Full 
on his dark face with her hand she struck him. 
'Take it!' she cried, 'Forward my men, drive 
them back.' 

"Long had we waited for her command; 
as one man we sprang forward ; out through 
the doorway; rushed upon the Foundling; 
rushed upon the people; forty warriors well 
armed, fearless. We were used to arms ; the 
people were not; carls they were, villagers, 
fisherf oik ; dire was the confusion we wrought 

112 



Eighth Leaf 

them ; furious we sought to drive them back ; 
eagerly we sought the Foundling. The Moth- 
er stood to cheer us on, at her side was the 
Mistress. 

"Then from within the house came a 
shriek, a cry of terror. It made our hearts 
stand still. Through the great hall the 
women came flocking. 'We are undone !' they 
wailed, 'The house is burning, we are un- 
done!' 

u Of what followed little do I remember. 
Great was the bloodshed; terror to the 
women. The Mother seized a weapon; she 
fought like a warrior; the Mistress stood 
beside her white and rigid; she would not 
leave the Mother. The Foundling drew near ; 
he laughed; with his hand he touched her, 
he spoke in her ear. As a dove who would 
save her young from the serpent, she turned ; 
she strove to repulse him. Rage 
filled my heart. I fought mightily to come 
near them. Now the house was in flames, 
lurid was their glow on the pale night. As I 
fought my way, a carl struck me; I knew no 
more. 

113 



Stray Leaves 

"'Woe is me, woe is me,' groaned the house- 
man, 'How shall I carry the tale, how speak 
what I saw when at last from my long swoon 
I wakened!' " 

No word spoke the fisherfolk; the oarsmen 
were silent; white and cold Oulf leaned 
against his ship's prow; white and cold as the 
chalk cliffs of the far island. "Go on," spake 
the henchman. The house-man took up his 
tale. 

"About me on every side lay the slain ; good 
warriors; strong, fearless, friends of my 
childhood; fifteen in number. Great had been 
the slaughter; many carls, fishermen, shep- 
herds; I could not count them. But what of 
the women, what of the Mother, what of the 
Mistress? Painfully I raised myself, I 
crawled from the death-heap; what I saw 
then, how shall I speak it. At the door of 
the house cold in death lay the Mother; 
pierced with many wounds; pierced as was 
her lord in battle. Her long hair unbound 
fell like snow-drifts about her. ... I 
wept. ... I gathered up my strength; 
into the house I brought her; laid her in the 

114 



Eighth Leaf 

great hall; covered her with a mantle. All 
was still ; the grave could not be more silent. 
Where was the Mistress ? I sought her. 

u No sign there was of anything living, of 
anything moving. I passed through the great 
hall ; passed doors charred with the fire ; up 
the stone stairway. The fire had ceased 
burning; the house was strong. On I wan- 
dered, seeking. I came to her chamber and 
thine. I entered. At the door I stumbled on 
a belt. It was the Foundling's. There, by 
the window, lay the Mistress. With her long 
braids she had wrapped her throat ; her hand 
held them in the grip of death. . . . She 
would not yield; she would not be dishon- 
ored. . . . My tale is told." 

Then from the oarsmen, the warriors, there 
burst a groan; a groan of sorrow, of rage. 
Still Oulf spoke not; he stood erect; red in 
his eyes glowed the fire of fury ; his great hand 
he raised; he said, "We will repay." "Aye," 
shouted the warriors, " Death to the Found- 
ling; death to the traitors, death without 
quarter ! Lead on, Oulf, we follow I" Mad- 
ly they thirsted for battle. Swiftly Oulf strode 

ii5 



Stray Leaves 

forward; terrible the purpose on his face 
written. Drew he his great sword; with its 
point pierced his left arm; the red blood 
flowed o'er the blade; high above his head 
the good blade he lifted; so did the warriors. 
With it he struck his great shield. The war- 
riors shouted; on their shields beat their 
weapons ; loud was the war-clamor ; fierce was 
the war-song they chanted. Death to the 
traitors; death without quarter. They would 
rush onward. 

To Oulfs side stepped the henchman; 
spoke gravely, "Hear me, comrade." He 
raised his hand to silence the war song. Oulf 
strode on; he paid no heed. Maddened he 
was; thirsting for blood. Spoke again the 
henchman; he touched Oulf, u Hear me, com- 
rade." Furious Oulf turned ; raised his hand 
to slay him; he would brook no words; he 
would brook no delay. The henchman sprang 
forward; he turned; he raised his hand; he 
stood fearless of Oulfs anger ; he would not 
let him go forward. Fearless was the hench- 
man, a warrior tried in many battles, friend 
of Oulfs father, wise in council. Oulf 

116 



Eighth Leaf 

halted. "Hear me," he cried. "We may 
not go thus, so few in number. They wait 
for us, they are ready. Fifteen were killed; 
where are the others; faithful men, mighty 
warriors; free-men? They will fight with us. 
We will be wise; we shall conquer." 

Oulf laughed. "They were cowards; they 
fled; they left the Mother; they too shall 
taste blood; great shall be our vengeance." 

"Not so," cried the house-man. "Not so, 
Oulf, not so, Master; they fled not the brave 
warriors. I have seen them; they have told 
me. Long they held the entrance; furious 
they fought when the Mother fell. The Mis- 
tress fled; fled up the stairway; the Found- 
ling pursued her; followed the fierce warriors; 
followed the carlings, the fisher folk, the 
shepherds; they had tasted of bloodshed; 
mad they were for pillage. Desperate the 
fighting; the warriors held the stair. Some 
fared on to the chamber; they sought the 
Foundling; they would have his life-blood. 
They found the Mistress dead. 
Fleet of foot was the Foundling; a coward, a 
craven; fled he was, they knew not whither. 

117 



Stray Leaves 

Back to the stair they came; shouted the mes- 
sage of death, shouted, 'No quarter for trait- 
ors !' Rage filled the warriors. Thor entered 
their hearts ; they fought as a thousand ; beat 
back the carlings, the fisher folk, the shep- 
herds; like sheep they fled before them. The 
warriors pursued, killing without mercy. 

"They returned to the House in the morn- 
ing ; they found me by the Mistress ; we coun- 
selled together; we said, 'We will hold the 
House, we will wait Oulfs coming; he will 
come.' Never did the carls return ; fear holds 
them; for thee have we waited." 

Then spoke the henchman. "Let us to the 
House; let us call together the warriors. 
Quietly will we go; we will call the people, 
those that are faithful. At our coming they 
will fear the Foundling, they will fear our 
vengeance. To-night we will seek him ; heavy 
shall be his reward ; his house we will lay in 
ashes." 

"Thou art wise," Oulf answered, "So be 



it." 



Silent they passed on. Terror filled the 
118 



Eighth Leaf 

fisher folk. None sought the Foundling to 
warn him. 

Over the dunes, along the path to the 
House they passed ; at the gateway the house- 
men met them. No word was spoken. 

On the doorsteps were dark stains ; — blood. 
Alone Oulf moved forward; none dared to 
stay him ; at his mien, the hearts of the strong 
warriors failed them. 

He came to the door; he saw the blood 
stains; he knew their meaning; he turned 
sick; he reeled in the door-way; he bowed 
his great head. Tears came to the eyes of 
strong men, their hearts were melted. . . 
No word spoke Oulf. . . . Slowly he 
turned; as one blind he felt his way through 
the great hall; felt his way to the stair; grop- 
ing passed up it ; none dared to follow ; they 
held their breath at that sorrow. 

He came to the chamber. At the door he 
waited, he looked in. . . . Great was 
the disorder. Great was the Mistress' terror 
as she fled the Foundling. . . . Oulf en- 
tered. . . . On a chair lay her blue man- 
tle. Then, with a cry Oulf rent his silence; 

119 



Stray Leaves 

with shaking hand he clasped the mantle ; fell 
on his knees beside it; in its folds buried his 
face, swooned. 

Long he lay. How long he knew not. He 
looked up, the "Aged" stood beside him, the 
priest of Wotan; tall, crowned with leaves, 
of king-like bearing. Long fell his white 
beard, white his hair. He spoke to Oulf ; he 
bade him rise, he bade him punish the evil- 
doer. Stern was his look; upon Oulf s heart 
his words fell like fire. 

The hero of many battles, the king of the 
dark waters, the beloved of his people rose to 
his feet. With a mighty effort he shook sor- 
row from him, he turned his thoughts to war, 
to the reward of the evil-doer. He said, "I 
am ready, I will go. The weight of my wrath 
shall fall upon him." 

He went. He joined his warriors. The 
henchman took his place beside him. Few 
words were needed ; night was falling ; they 
turned their steps toward the village, toward 
the house of the Foundling. Stout arms they 
carried, torches to be lighted; lighted to fire 
the house of the Foundling. 

1 20 



Eighth Leaf 

Night fell. Silent, they entered the vil- 
lage. Nought was astir ; closed all the dwell- 
ings; silence everywhere. 

They came to the dark dwelling, the dwell- 
ing of evil. The warriors thirsted for blood, 
they thirsted to deal out the reward. Oulf 
said, u The quarrel is mine, mine more than 
any, mine first. He lied to my people, he 
turned their hearts to bitterness; he turned 
their hearts against the Mother who had 
ruled well, w T hom they had loved. He de- 
ceived them with lying words ; he led them to 
slaughter; with his own hand he sought to do 
that which I cannot speak. Mine is the quar- 
rel above all others. I will call him forth. " 

With his hand he struck the door of the 
dwelling; with the hilt of his sword he struck 
it; he called aloud upon the Foundling to 
answer. No answer came. They waited. 
He called again; struck with his sword. He 
cried aloud, "Come forth — much evil have 
you done; how much, you know. I come to 
make good. Come forth!" Then, from with- 
in, a voice cried, "Will you make good? 
Come, do it. None here are your bondsmen ; 
121 



Stray Leaves 

none babes, to come and go at your bidding. 
Strong men are within, well armed, ready. 
We dread not marauders. If you fear not, 
come take us." 

Furious, Oulf answered, u My foot shall 
not pass your threshold; your dark dwelling 
shall not hold me. Under the stars will I 
make good ; in the free air will I repay. Come 
forth if ye be so fearless. Come forth, ere 
we drive you!" 

Within, arose a tumult; a sound of men's 
voices ; a sound of women weeping. Furious 
grew the warriors waiting. They turned to 
Oulf, they said, "We wait too long; let us 
drive them forth ; let us drive them as beasts 
from their lair." Oulf said, "Go do it, nor 
tarry." 

Four warriors creep through the shadow; 
they light their torches; they fire the evil 
dwelling. The flames spread ; the wind fans 
them; they grow, they lick the sides of the 
dwelling. The warriors stand apart wait- 
ing. From within the dwelling a great cry; 
shrieks of women. The flames have entered. 
Then is the door thrown open ; out rushes the 

122 



Eighth Leaf 

Foundling, a score of armed men with him; 
his wife follows. Dazzled by the light of the 
fire, they at first see nothing; they seek only 
safety, safety from the fierce flames. 
Oulf is ready. . . . Shouting his war- 
cry he falls upon them; his warriors tarry 
not. Fierce is the fighting. Oulf seeks one, 
one only, the Foundling. The Foundling is 
afraid; he hides behind those fighting. Oulf 
finds him, strikes him down; raises his war- 
blade to slay. Shrieking, a woman throws 
herself between. The Foundling's wife. She 
strives with Oulf; she prays for the Found- 
ling's life; she stands ever between the war- 
blade and the home it seeks in the Foundling's 
breast. The henchman strives to drive her 
back; madly she struggles; still she pleads. 
The warriors, fierce with the taste of blood, 
shout, "Slay her too; slay the whole brood; 
they cumber the ground; stay not thy hand 
Oulf." Yet Oulf strikes not. 

What stayed his hand? None knew, scarce 
himself. A look in the woman's eyes, her cry, 
her pleading. So "she", she he had loved, 
would have plead for him. He grew giddy; 

123 



Stray Leaves 

he turned from the carnage; he said, "Take 
them away, I war not with women and 
— cowards." 

The warriors obey, yet among themselves 
they murmur. Mercy is not their habit ; mercy 
to evil doers, destroyers of homes. Yet they 
obey. All, not slain in the onslaught, they 
seize and bind; the Foundling, his wife, they 
capture. Silent, sullen, Oulf stands apart. 
Silent he turns to lead the way homeward. The 
henchman draws near; he speaks; Oulf an- 
swers not. They reach the great House. Oulf 
raises his hand, "To the dungeons I" Turns 
on his heel, seeks his room and Hers; bars 
the door against all. None may enter, to no 
voice will he answer. 

Grieved is the henchman; angry the war- 
riors. Much they question together. What 
is this weakness? Why stays Oulf his hand? 
Why spare the evil-doer? Why spare the 
woman? "She is with child," the henchman 
answers. He turns from them; he stands 
apart; much he ponders OulPs strangeness. 

Alone Oulf sits. He notes not the day's 
passing; he notes not the long twilight; he 

124 



Eighth Leaf 

notes not the wind moaning ; he notes not the 
rising storm. Over and over his thoughts 
hammer, "She would have plead for the 
woman ; the woman plead for the Foundling ; 
the woman is with child ; I could not strike 
— I could not strike." 

Three days and nights. Without, the 
storm is raging; gusts of wind, snow-fall. 
Oulf looks up. Again the "Aged" stands be- 
fore him. None could know how he came 
there. Austere is his bearing; stern his words. 
Oulf listens dully, half hearing; he answers 
not. The "Aged" unbars the door, he calls 
to the henchman. The henchman stands by 
Oulf's side, lays his hand on his shoulder; 
speaks to him. "The people grow restless, 
they cry aloud. They demand full payment 
for the evil-doer. Arouse thyself, call up thy 
manhood; come to the hall of judgment. 
Justice waits." 

Oulf goes with them. The warriors gath- 
er, shout at his coming. They fill the judg- 
ment hall ; Oulf sits in the great chair. The 
Foundling is brought before him. Trembling 
he falls at Oulf's feet; he pleads for mercy. 

125 



Stray Leaves 

Like stone is the face of the Viking. The war- 
riors laugh, they jeer at the Foundling; they 
cry with one voice, "Silence him, Oulf ! Deal 
with him as he would deal with thee. Si- 
lence him with his own blood ; strike down the 
craven!" 

Terrified, the Foundling crawls to Oulf's 
feet, clasps his knees, shrieks for pity. With 
loathing Oulf throws him off, stands, then 
turns to his people. 

u Long have ye known me, aye, from my 
cradle. Many are the battles where we have 
stood shoulder to shoulder. Storms have we 
weathered, weathered we many storms where 
others have foundered ; carnage, great slaugh- 
ter, slaughter of worthy foes, foes who stoodup 
and faced us. When was Oulf known to raise 
his sword against women, 'gainst children, 
'gainst weaklings. Since the light of the Mis- 
tress shown within these dark walls, when has 
Oulf turned a deaf ear to mercy. Nay, I will 
fight with a man who will face me, fight to the 
death; one of us shall conquer. But to strike 
one who crawls to my feet like a beggar, a 
craven, a half-man ... no fit deed for 

126 



Eighth Leaf 

a warrior. Make him stand up, arm him, let 
us stand face to face; I will fight to the death. 
I have said." Turning, he left the hall. 

Loudly the hall thundered with cries of 
rage. Furious were the warriors ; they liked 
not Oulfs justice; roughly they seized the 
Foundling; would have torn him to pieces. 
Boldly the henchman stepped forward. "Oulf 
is right. The sword of a warrior should not 
taste the blood of a craven. Do as he bid 
you, arm the Foundling; he shall fight." 

Vainly shrieked the Foundling; he knew 
naught of weapons. Laughing, they bade him 
learn; said they would teach him; bore him 
away. 

But Oulf, faint with fasting, torn, like a 
great pine in Winter storms, by thoughts that 
beset him, called for mead. He would drink, 
he would forget. 

Deep he drank, long he drank. The storm 
had ceased; white was the land. 

Comes the henchman. "Friend, all is 
ready." "All is ready?" Oulf answers. 
"Ready for what, — for the hunt? Aye, for 
the hunt. 'Tis a fine day for hunting; bring 

127 



Stray Leaves 

spears, bring knives; we will go, I am ready." 
Vainly they speak of the Foundling; vainly 
the henchman strives to make Oulf remember. 
He laughs loud and long. "The trial," he 
cries. "The trial of strength? Aye, we will 
try him; he shall have a fair showing; he 
shall hunt with us. He too shall meet bear in 
the white spaces." Again he laughs, nor will 
he heed them. He will brook no denial. 
Sadly they say, He is stricken. We will not 
gainsay him. Let us hunt; we will abide his 
awakening." For deep was their love for the 
Viking. 

Oulf would have the Foundling. This too 
they yielded. Loudly Oulf rallied him; 
laughed at his terrors. On they strode o'er 
the snow-fields, spears in hand, knives at belt. 

Then came the bear tracks, the hunt, the 
bear sighted. "His the first fling, the Found- 
ling's," Oulf shouted; nor would he hear rea- 
son. Into the Foundling's hand a spear is 
thrust; trembling he throws it; strikes the 
on-coming bear; the bear reek, falls forward. 
"Well done!" Oulf cries. "Go fetch your 
killing!" Vainly the henchman repeats laws 

128 



Eighth Leaf 

of the forest ; the beast shall be despatched by 
the freemen. Oulf grows angry, will not be 
denied. 

The bear only stunned, seizes the Found- 
ling; crushes him in his fierce grip; sets his 
teeth in his neck, in his shoulder; tears him. 
Short is the struggle. The warriors murmur, 
u This is not for sportsmen; this is not for 
warriors." They turn to Oulf; they would 
slay the bear. Motionless Oulf stands; to 
the end he watches. Together, the bear and 
the Foundling on the snow lie dead. 

Strangely Oulf speaks, "Bear them back, 
the hunt is over." 

Silently the warriors gather boughs, weave 
them together, upon them lay the "hunt"; 
turn homeward. Deep is the grief of the 
henchman ; he grieves for Oulf 's past glory. 

They reach the village. No word is spok- 
en. In fear the people watch them pass. At 
the door of the Foundling's dwelling, his wife 
stands. She had been taken there with her 
babe. Little of the dwelling stands save char- 
red ruins. She waits to see her husband pass. 
She sees him upon the boughs. With a shriek 

129 



Stray Leaves 

she throws herself upon him. Oulf strides 
on to the House, nor did they again see his 
face, 'til the end. 

Alone once again, beside the blue cloak. 
Who shall say what his thoughts were; who 
can know what his loathing of the deed done, 
as the fire of the mead abated? 

No purpose set, scarce feeling, scarce see- 
ing, the next day early finds him retracing his 
steps o'er the road he had but just traveled. 
He carries -no spear; no weapon save the 
knife at his belt. Still unused, forgotten. On 
he strides to the forest; seeks the bear-trail; 
follows it. Well he knows the mate should 
be near to avenge the death of its fellow ; nor 
does he fail to find. Nosing about the spot 
of the fighting, the great beast mourns its 
dead mate; sobs over the blood-stains. It is 
not long to see Oulf. He approaches. The 
beast stands erect ; it threatens him ; he keeps 
onward. They meet, they grapple, battle to 
the death. Torn and bleeding, scarce resist- 
ing, Oulf has stood to the attack. Then, of a 
sudden, the man rises within him. He, the 
prey of a beast ? He, the proud Viking ? He 

130 



Eighth Leaf 

calls up his huge strength; fiercely he strug- 
gles; finds the knife, plunges it deep home; 
the bear falls. He is free. 

For a moment he stands. . . . When 
the mate is gone, even beasts die. 

Within him a great longing. Well he 
knows death is coming. Fast and red flows 
the blood from his many wounds; his torn 
shoulder, his bleeding side. But home, home, 
with the blue cloak clasped close, so to die ! He 
must reach it. On he struggles, marking with 
blood his trail; growing ever fainter. He 
can stand no more erect. He falls to his 
knees ; he crawls over the white snow. Faint- 
er, he creeps through the passes. His hand 
strikes on something; it slides before him. 
He reaches it ... a bit of shale. Then, 
a memory. Words "She" had taught him to 
form, holding his great fingers in hers as he 
shaped them. With the point of his knife his 
mark he makes, and the words, lifts the shale 
in his teeth, creeps onward. 

Night falls. He nears the village. A red 
glow lights it. He questions. Life is all but 
gone; still he keeps on. The light? 'Tis the 

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Stray Leaves 

funeral-pyre of the Foundling. He hears the 
wailing of women. He struggles on. He 
reaches the square; the pyre is blazing; he 
draws near to it; close beside. Dying, he 
lies among his people. The bit of shale falls 
beside him. One lifts it and reads: — 

"OULF, HIS ATONEMENT." 



Ah, well; ah, well! The Soul knows its 
own purpose, seeks its own school. Falter- 
ingly it learns its alphabet. With many sighs 
and almost blindly at first, from day to day, 
it forms the letters into words. 

Words there are, of many sorts, of many 
meanings; and like a babe, the first its un- 
practiced tongue can form are those which 
deal with things near by, — things of touch, 
things of sense. Then come those of wider 
meaning and those that speak ideas. Yet still, 
they savor of desire, the acquirement of that 
which it calls "good" for Self. 

But the awakening, the first impulse to- 
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Eighth Leaf 

wards selflessness — how to spell that word; 
in what school to learn it ! The Soul knows. 

Does it then seem so great a downfall from 
the priest, wandering through shady gardens, 
to this Norseman ; erring, confused, driven by 
unaccustomed impulses, undefined purpose? 
Yet, in the priest, with all his ardent seeking, 
with all that he called "devotion," lay the 
seed of error which brought failure none the 
less ; while in the Norseman, contending with 
the rough usages of his time, was that finer 
wisdom latent, which with his kind, he sowed 
as the seed of a wider devotion, a nobler hu- 
manity, where mercy and compassion shall be 
the words of their Ideal. And though he 
planted in weakness, torn by his very ignor- 
ance from persistence in Compassion's path, 
shall he not reap in power ? 

Judge no Soul 'til the end is known. 



133 



REVERIE 



Out of the dung-heap springs the scented 
rose. 

Out of ignorance, its throes, its bitter pains, 
its quick retribution, is slowly born knowledge. 

From agony of the suffering heart spring, 
in the end, pity, mercy, justice ! 

Out of the groping of the Soul in darkness, 
is born, at last, the young dawn of a new 
day. 

'Tis not enough, 'tis not enough, my Soul, 
to stand in calm contemplation of the Divine 
Idea. 

'Tis not enough to seek for Self, however 
eagerly liberation from the errors that beset 
our kind. 

'Tis not enough that we should not fear 
death or danger. Nay, there must spring from 
out the mouldering heap of long experience, 

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Eighth Leaf 

the rose of Great Compassion, its perfume 
spreading, unconscious of its own sweetness, 
upon the air. 

So moves the Good Law to its purposes, 
the law of the Soul's growth. So will it tri- 
umph in the end ; e'en though thou and I, my 
Soul, be cast down again to the depths of ig- 
norance, to learn a lesson we had passed by. 
Be, like this poor heart, bound with iron fet- 
ters of ice and snow ; rent, as was he, by the 
birth of mercy, where ignorance would have 
cried "revenge," deeming his struggle to re- 
alize a new ideal, weakness. 



135 



NINTH LEAF 



" Learn that no effort, not the small- 
est — whether in right or wrong direction — 
can vanish from the world of causes. E'en 
wasted smoke remains not traceless." 

THE TWO PATHS 



NINTH LEAF 



"Ah, but my heart is weary, weary for the 
griefs of my country." 

Only a lad, yet this is his heart's cry. Bit- 
ter is his youth to him that he must feel the 
yoke of the oppressor upon his shoulders, that 
he must see honored heads and proud, bowed 
in subjection to a stranger. 

"Ah, but I am weary, I am weary!" So 
he speaks in sadness; but there are other 
times, hours of defiance, hours of planning the 
work he will do when a man. Then will he 
rise up in the strength of his cause ; then shall 
the tryant feel the sting of his arrows; then 
shall the hireling soldiers tremble at his bat- 
tle-cry; then shall the chieftains once more 
have their own ; once more shall the fires on 
the hills blaze out freedom to the valleys. 

That he is but one, that the long-tried cour- 

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Stray Leaves 

age of others has faltered, what matter? One 
heart awake, can send forth the cry of "Free- 
dom"; one dauntless purpose can rouse a 
stricken nation! 

So he ponders and dreams as he wanders 
through the heather. So he seeks out the 
high valleys where in years past the clans as- 
sembled and seems already to hear the rally- 
ing-cry, echo from hill to hill. So his bearing 
grows fierce and unyielding, nor will he brook 
a word from any who willingly wear the 
badge of service and fealty to the Stranger. 



Child-dreams, day-dreams. Are they any 
worth? Some say no. Yet how oft, from 
these small acorns cast upon a rugged soil, 
grow up the mighty oaks of a true manhood. 
From these small seeds dropped by the way- 
side on a day in Spring, expands the maiden's 
morning-glory — fragile, white, rosy, heavenly 
colors, flowers of the dawn. 

Child-dreams, day-dreams. Grey-bearded, 
we look back upon them with an indulgent 

140 



Ninth Leaf 

smile, and in our " wisdom" refuse to see how 
large a part they played among the tightened 
strands through which weVe woven, care- 
fully or carelessly, the pattern of our lives. 

Child-dreams, day-dreams. Glimpses of 
our Soul's own possibilities.. How often are 
they thrown aside that we may grasp at cheap 
possessions near at hand. We tangle our skein 
and break the smooth threads of our life's 
warp, where every knot but adds a flaw to that 
which might have been so fair. 



The years speed by and his heart grows 
bitter. Cramped by hard poverty, himself 
and his kindred are deprived of home and 
name. Then the noble purpose of the child- 
dreams slips away and only now and then 
awakes, to stir within his heart the old emo- 
tions, to light the old fire. 

Hand in hand with him One goes whose 
name is his, he having been denied his own. 

Once, when the pale sunshine smiled o'er 
the heathered knolls, a crown he wove for her, 

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Stray Leaves 

of scented purple, and placing it upon her 
brows with boyish ardor cried, "Some day we 
shall be great together." He had meant, great 
of heart ; but the years have slipped away and 
they are still lowly, hunted, oppressed. Now, 
for a time, has hardship changed him and he 
seeks the right to bear his name, to live on his 
own land, to draw together his own people; 
and in a moment of despair, he yields him to 
the yoke he scorned in day-dreams, as a boy. 

Yet, save now and again, when his free 
heart rebels, the yoke is not so heavy, the 
patron not unkind, and she too for a time, 
bows her proud head in meek submission. 

Then comes a day, when one high in the 
Conqueror's favor, seeing her beauty, craves 
it for his own. The little home is ravaged, 
the few possessions blotted out and she, left 
to wander through the storm unconquered, 
though alone and despairing. He who had 
gone forth on a peaceful errand, returned to 
find his home in ashes and her he loved gone, 
he knew not whither, woke from his lethargy, 
never again to sleep and dream of fancied 
peace, while oppression stalked abroad in 

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Ninth Leaf 

guise of right and the voice of his fellows 
cried for his arm to help them 'gainst the com- 
mon foe. 



Having found her and brought her to his 
side again, though at times confused, at times 
seeing clearly, still together, they strove for 
years, not to be great of fame themselves, but 
in greatness of heart to build for those who 
should come after. 

So was nurtured the shoot of comradeship 
which, when grown, becomes the vigorous tree 
of true humanity. And though they died, 
their names still hold a note which calls with 
trumpet sound to hearts far down the ages, 
that freedom is for all; that freedom means 
not exaltation of the one, but the blending of 
the one Soul with humanity's great heart. 



143 



TENTH LEAF 



"If thou would'st not be slain by them, then 
must thou harmless make thy own creations, 
the children of thy thoughts, unseen, impalpa- 
ble, that swarm round humankind, the prog- 
eny and heirs to man and his terrestial spoils. 
O fearless Aspirant, look deep 
within the well of thine own heart, and an- 
swer. Knowest thou of Self the powers, O 
thou perceiver of external shadows ?" 

THE SEVEN PORTALS 



TENTH LEAF 



Primeval forest stretching far over un- 
traveled distances. For ages had its mighty 
aisles proclaimed the majesty of their upward 
growth, their stillness broken only by the na- 
ture sounds, or here and there, the whine of 
the hungry wildcat who scents a distant prey; 
the soft click-clack of the deer bounding to- 
ward the pool ; the bear's padded footfall ; in- 
deed all those still-moving creatures, whose 
sounds become silence, when once man's grow- 
ing voice echoes through the wilderness. 

For ages man has been there, but man as 
one of these, moving like them, softly; hunt- 
ing like them, fierce, governed only by the 
wild forest law r s of u might means right." Far, 
far has he strayed from the soul of growth 
and dignity which has formed the mighty 
trees; the sweet hopefulness and joy of the 

H7 



Stray Leaves 

flower-carpeted forest spaces. Free he wand- 
ers. Free? Aye, free; the freedom won by 
a strong arm, the pressure of hunger, the driv- 
ing of insatiable, ignorant desire. 

But now, to the forest's edge, have come a 
new people whom all the forest creatures, 
man and beast alike, fear and hate. Yet they 
too seek freedom. Few in number they are ; 
stalwart men, brave women, such as find heart 
to face dangers of a wild and unknown land, 
the bitter hardships of the pioneer, cold and 
hunger, an endless struggle with unseen foes, 
the sudden battle with the untamed posses- 
sors of the soil. 

Yet stalwart and brave though they are, 
they are fugitives. Strange is it not, that all 
the terrors of savage raid, wild beasts, and 
death by cold and hunger can nothing daunt 
them as did that thing from which they fled. 
So it looks upon the surface, for it too, but 
meant death. Yet within their hearts was a 
far deeper purpose than the mere withdrawing 
of themselves from a cruel and bigoted op- 
pression. Within their hearts, impelling by 
a mighty force, so mighty that it seemed their 

148 



Tenth Leaf 

own will, was echoing the call from the Good 
Law, sent out when the hour of change was 
struck: — "Arise ye men of earth, awake to 
higher things! Behold my rule, the day of 
my coming into the kingdom draws on. Arise 
ye, go, prepare the way!" And, though they 
knew but that they must find place wherein 
to lift their hearts unbound, in service such 
as they craved, to the great Heart of All, per- 
ceiving not the wide import of their self-im- 
posed exile, guessing nothing of the future 
magnitude of the work their labor gave birth 
to, still with undaunted purpose they sought 
and found the forest's solitude. There, with 
patient hand, they felled the mighty trees, 
raised their humble houses, and strove with 
the problems of the cry within their hearts, 
the obstacles which they met on every hand. 

A stern people these, merciless to them- 
selves, relentless to their enemies; love, a 
thing they would not own, even to those near- 
est and dearest. Frugal, untiring, they strove 
with bitter earnestness for peace and joy which 
they stifled and killed, did but their first soft 
rays seek to illumine the cruel, self-imposed 

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Stray Leaves 

restrictions. And among them One, who, the 
lessons of the long past still unlearned, strives 
with his Soul to conquer — what? Its best 
possibilities, deeming thus to make it strong. 

Herein lies the sadness of the Soul. This 
the weight upon the heart which all sometimes 
feel. The precious jewel of Truth caught and 
held for just a moment and let go by hands 
that seek to grasp a fancied glory, a phantasm 
born of their own ignorance. And still man 
strives to have his way; to force the Good 
Law into his small measure, calling love evil ; 
or flying to the extreme and degrading it to 
passion, lust and shame, ere he can see through 
the long swing from point to point, that 
love is the word divine by which himself 
shall conquer Self and win his lasting im- 
mortality. 

Know, oh my Soul, this is the rare jewel of 
great price we seek ; this the golden key which 
can alone unlock the mystery; this the 
treasure of the heart, which, 'til we find, sad- 
ness and twilight will brood o'er all mankind. 
Pain, grief and death must work their al- 
lotted task; life, happiness and joy the re- 

150 



Tenth Leaf 

ceding gifts we ask. Awake, awake my Soul ! 
Is it then so hard a task to love, and loving 
thus, embrace all past? 

Yet his stern creed could not altogether 
still the key-note of his being which he'd 
brought from that fair paradise so far be- 
hind. Moments of tenderness would come, 
moments of ardent aspirations he could not 
understand. Strive as he would, the high- 
arched forest shades, the velvet moss beneath 
his feet, the rustling leaves, at times, would 
wake that sweet echo, and with it he walked 
a man apart. He could not interpret to him- 
self these strange waverings, as they seemed ; 
yet in the forest's solitudes he would ponder 
long and question — almost receive the heav- 
enly dew and benediction ; and then, child of 
his people and his time, agonize that he 
should be so weak; stride back to the small 
settlement to eagerly lend a hand wherever 
he might help, saying to himself that he might 
"forget," — but see, already his dawn was 
breaking. 

So time swept on and he was counted strong 
and true, trusted he was by all. His was the 

151 



Stray Leaves 

eye most keen to find traces of enemies upon 
the forest's velvet floor. His the ear that could 
first detect the distant approach of those other 
men who, with all the wide land their claim, 
could not suffer the presence of these few 
strangers because they knew that theirs was a 
fibre which soon or late must conquer. 

So, one dark night, while in the small 
homes all slept, he, ever ready, heard a faint 
sound far in the distance which brought him 
to his feet. One moment's attention and he 
knew the danger was fast drawing near. From 
door to door he passed quickly, giving the 
alarm and having roused them went to a post 
where he could stand and watch. 

Well for them that he had heard, for they 
were scarce ready when the savage warriors 
burst upon them with yell and shout and fly- 
ing arrows. But, though actuated by hate 
and fear, they could not easily subdue the 
stern men who waited, knowing that should 
they fall, their women would be victims to 
such horrors as cannot be spoken. 

He led the van and whistling arrows and 
humming bullets filled the air. Shrieks, cries 

152 



Tenth Leaf 

and groans sounded in the ears of mothers 
who clasped their children close, of pale girls 
who, with all their courage, wept. 

And he ? At the moment of victory he fell 
at his post, pierced with many wounds. His 
comrades won the battle with savage man, but 
he triumphed, in that through all, he had no 
thought of self. 



"Dead," you say, "Just as his dawn was 
breaking?" Sad? Nay, for he shall triumph 
still. There never was a dawn not followed 
by the day. Sad? Ah, there is nought so 
sad to those who watch the journey of the 
Soul as human pleasure; there is nought so 
full of hope as human pain. 

Is this a strange doctrine? Is it? Nay, 
for by these two does the Soul grow until it 
reaches man's estate, and looking with fearless 
eyes to where wisdom awaits its coming, lays 
aside these primers of its childhood days and 
walks free, enlightened, upon the fair 
white way of the Good Law. 

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Stray Leaves 

And this stern people of whom he was one, 
striving for freedom to live and serve as they 
deemed right, realized not the source of their 
desire nor that what they dimly felt, should 
one day be fully known; what they blindly 
strove for, should one day be fully won. And 
e'en their ignorance shall not stay at last the 
coming of the noon-day of their souls. 



154 



ELEVENTH LEAF 

"Hast thou not entered Tau, the 'Path' 
that leads to knowledge — the fourth truth?" 

VOICE OF THE SILENCE 



ELEVENTH LEAF 

A dreary Autumn rain falling persistently 
with sobbing sound, packing the dead leaves 
close to the earth's chill breast, hiding away 
secrets of the Spring which still cannot be for- 
ever stayed from coming forth. But rest is 
good, and surely out of death comes life. 

A night so dark that even objects near at 
hand cannot be seen, and passing over the 
sodden earth, a footfall makes no sound. 

But, keeping on despite the darkness and 
the gloom, feeling each step before he takes it, 
knowing nothing of the way, he presses for- 
ward, straight and buoyant, crowned with 
manhood's first young prime. 

At last he comes to where the road would 
seem to end. He can see nothing ; yet straight 
before him a barrier stands, and on each hand 
he seems to find as cautiously he feels his way, 

157 



Stray Leaves 

rocks and pitfalls. He ponders deeply. How 
shall he proceed (for proceed he must, his 
word being pledged). Then as he is about 
to turn in that direction which, in the dark- 
ness, seems the most secure, to his alert ear 
comes a voice which whispers, "Surely out of 
death comes life." He stops and listens, for 
these the words which he was told should show 
his guide to him; and turning toward the 
voice, he whispers back, "Death is but trans- 
formation; what shall we fear ?" Then close 
to his side he feels a presence ; a hand is laid 
upon his arm ; and more clearly now the voice 
speaks, "Come with me." He goes. 

It is not long before he finds himself pass- 
ing from the darkness into light, from the sob- 
bing Autumn rain, into a hall where harmon- 
ies most sweet float through the air. 

All that passed there may not be told ; but 
this the seal he set upon his novitiate : 

"I place myself in confidence upon the bo- 
som of the Law; in patience will I meet its 
just awards, be they life or death." 

"With such wisdom as is mine, striving 
ever for clearer light, I will uphold Its wise 

158 



Eleventh Leaf 

decrees ; seeking only to support the right, not 
to force my will. Nor will I, knowing that 
the Law Divine is justice manifest, bear 
weapons of any sort for self-defense or for 
revenge." 

His promise made, the Wise One to whom 
he had come, blessed him and sent him forth 
to meet a stormy world, armed only with his 
steadfast purpose and his perfect trust. Not 
trust that nought distressful could befall, but 
trust that only in fulfilling of the Law is final 
peace. 

Thus set he his feet upon the Path once 
more. To travel it more surely than of old? 
We shall see. 



Light and darkness; how they press upon 
each other's heels! 

Day and night; see how in ordered march 
they pass through times and times. 

Pain and ease; struggle and repose; grief 
and joy; contrasts, contrasts — life and death ! 

Is there a purpose? Should there be? 
What's to learn by these? 

159 



Stray Leaves 

Behold ! We stand between ; the contrasts 
play about us and upon us. We perceive them ; 
we gauge, we weigh, we adjust; we seek for 
what? For joy? Nay, joy passes; it is not 
permanent. For pain ? Nay, pain passes ; it 
is not permanent. For peace? Aye' tis this 
we seek. Peace, poise. Ourselves, wis- 
dom ; and how can these be gained save by ex- 
perience? Experience of contrasts, that we 
may know that balance, equilibrium, peace, 
stand at the center, witnessing but unaffected 
by all this play and interplay of transient 
things. 

How long, how long have we been upon the 
road, my Soul ! How long, how long ere we 
may reach the goal! Yet all these things are 
needed that the Soul may gaze, all undis- 
mayed, upon that peace sublime which holds 
but terror for those yet unprepared by heat 
and cold, like tempered metal, all the dross 
burned out, its final endurance made secure by 
the transition from furnace heat to cool and 
running waters. 

* * * H« 
1 60 



Eleventh Leaf 

So he passed from out that great hall's ra- 
diance ; out from that calm presence which he 
revered, back to the dark and stormy night, 
true type of that which he Good Law still 
held of lessons he must learn. 

One glimpse of paradise to give him hope 
and then, the city, revolution-racked. 

Within his heart the song of "Peace to 
All"; without the howling mob shrieking, 
"To arms, to arms!" 

He must bear no weapon. Why ? 

Because the New Day must be led on by 
those who know the Law, who know their 
purpose, who know that it is mockery to claim 
that peace, true peace, can come through shed- 
ding blood. And if they fall in serving the 
great purpose? They do not fall in vain. 
Their ardent Souls live still ; their watchword 
sounds afar; and one by one those who hear 
and understand surround the uplifted banner 
to bear it on. 

So he passed from the greeting hands of 
friends, through heavy prison doors, there to 
find many whom he loved, waiting, waiting, 
waiting for the end. 

161 



Stray Leaves 

Why was he there? Because his purpose 
though not known was felt and feared. So 
do darkness and ignorance ever strive to over- 
master light and wisdom, whatever be the rea- 
son they themselves assign as good excuse. 

Hour by hour he sat and pondered on the 
mighty question of his nation's fall, of the 
means of its salvation. Hour by hour he 
paced the stony floor, his heart torn with 
pity for those by whom he was surrounded. 
Some shrinking in terror at each fresh call for 
such as must feed the insatiable engine of re- 
volt; or waiting in stony patience; or weep- 
ing hopelessly for those they'd left; or striv- 
ing in low tones to comfort one another until 
their names should be cried out and they must 
walk the narrow, thorny way. 

Hours, days, nights; he counted not the 
time. He did his share to strengthen and con- 
sole, he looked for his own turn to come, yet 
had no sense of fear; for well he knew that 
over all this chaos watched that Law Divine 
which moves to good, and that he, with all 
these others (poor afflicted souls) , was but set 
to learn something he had missed before, 

163 



Eleventh Leaf 

A candle, held erect by its own grease 
poured upon the rough-hewn mantle-shelf, 
wavered and gutted in the draught blown 
through a grated window. Its flickering, 
formed long "shrouds" upon its sides and, as 
he watched it, thinking almost idly of the old 
superstition, iron bolts were drawn, and at the 
door, stood one who called his name, and his 
alone. 

He rose to meet it and a cry went up from 
those about him ; for many were there whom 
he had loved before, and many had learned 
to love him for his calm bearing and ever- 
ready sympathy. 

He reached and mounted the three steps 
leading to the door, and turning, looked upon 
his friends. Then, upon his shoulder, the 
guard laid a hand and said, "Citizen, you are 
free." 

No use for him to remonstrate or object. 
No use for him to plead that he would rather 
suffer as these others must and die as they 
must die. The revolution was as inexorable 
in its decree of life as death. As he stood, 
these poor fated ones gathered round him; 

163 



Stray Leaves 

bade him Godspeed, kissed his hand or whis- 
pered low, "Never fail our cause." And he 
answered, "Never!" But the guards hur- 
ried him away to life, while others, in his mind 
more fortunate, were dragged to the engine of 
a higher liberty than that the revolution strove 
for. 



Fearful lest she might already have fallen a 
victim to the cruel times, unhindered he sought 
out the home of her who was dearest to him. 
Had she? Then indeed would life be blank 
save for his purpose. But he found her, sit- 
ting with her father in a room apart, all worn 
with weeping for him whom she believed she 
would not see again. 

No need to picture their great joy ; no need 
to dwell upon their talk as they, side by side, 
sat speaking of events of the past days. One in 
thought and feeling, one in purpose, one in 
conviction, they knew only they were one; as 
in that night long passed, two had paced back 
and forth from moon-light to the azalias' 
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Eleventh Leaf 

shade, with the soft tide murmuring on the 
sands beyond the wall. 

Then, into the adjoining room, where in 
his great chair her father sat reading by the 
lamp, unannounced, there stepped a man. He 
was of no great stature, muscular, heavy- 
jawed, belted with a three colored sash in 
which two pistols were conspicuously placed. 
He stepped up to her father and waited. They 
saw him through the door which stood ajar. 
Fear filled her eyes, and trembling, she clung 
to him she loved, whispering, "Our enemy!" 

"Perhaps not, dear," he answered, "for 
I fancy 'twas through him my freedom came ; 
none other could have given it." But she 
was not convinced. 

Then of her father the man asked concern- 
ing her and, upon reply said, u Is he here too ?" 
Fler father hesitated, and seeing this, he 
turned sharply round and stepped toward the 
door. 

"Come!" said he she loved, "Courage! 
Let us meet him half way." And placing his 
arm about her, they passed into the room. 

They passed. A moment's recognition of 
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Stray Leaves 

the white rage upon his face — a sudden im- 
pulse to draw her lover back and close the 
door — all in a moment a flash, a cry — and she 
fell bleeding, shot through the heart, upon the 
arm that had encircled her. 

Mad with the sudden grief and horror, his 
hand instinctively sought his weapon to find 
— he had none — and the memory of his vow 
returned. Holding the dear form in his em- 
brace, he looked in helpless agony upon her 
slayer; turned his eyes to where the father 
sat, wondering that he did nothing. Rigid 
he was in his great chair. The shock had 
killed him ! As he again turned his gaze upon 
her lifeless form, a fresh report, a strange 
stinging in his side — a burst of strength which 
passed as quickly into faintness. The dear 
form slipped from his relaxing grasp, and 
slowly he sank to darkness — death. 



Had he failed or triumphed in leaving un- 
avenged the death of one so innocent? Had 
he failed or triumphed we ask again. 

166 



Eleventh Leaf 

"Failed!" cry the warring crowds who 
shriek, "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a 
tooth!" 

"Triumphed!" cries the Soul that seeks the 
mystery of Peace. Triumphed, in that by such 
refraining, he made one less to fill the lawless 
ranks driven on by ignorance and folly. 
Triumphed, in that he joined the van-guard 
of those who, in the end, must conquer clamor 
by silence, hatred by Love. For surely out 
of Death comes Life ! 

And he who had wrought all this. Was it 
pleasure that he found, to slay the one he 
loved ? For what ? Because she loved anoth- 
er? To give that other freedom that he 
might wreak his vengeance for what was not 
a crime? And done, was he satisfied? Do 
such deeds as this bring Peace? 



167 



REVERIE 

Life, life ! How deep its secrets, how vast 
its mysteries! 

We say, "This one lives," and then again, 
"he dies." But whither life has fled, or that 
life has truly fled at all — here is a master-knot 
which few untie. Carve it they do with 
scalpel, sword and reason ; but still 'tis there, 
the ever-present problem. For, within the 
tiniest atom, as we know, is life — life that will 
manifest in some sort, holding some surprise. 

"He is dead." Nay, is he? Fled he 
may be, passed we know not where, per- 
haps, but in the rotting body life is' still 
bringing forth other forms, changing what 
had been a commonwealth of atortis into a 
struggling mass of units. Surely out of death 
comes life; that which has passed but feeds 
what is to be ; and he who looks with opened 

1 68 



Eleventh Leaf 

eyes upon the changing phases Nature takes, 
sees everywhere the Good Law working to- 
ward one great end — growing consciousness, 
knowledge, exaltation, freedom, wisdom, all 
uniting to bring final Peace. 

But where is "he" who was "He?" Is he 
dead, because his tabernacle no longer mani- 
fests his will? Was he his body? Can that 
Man-Mind which held communion with the 
things of air, which planned and worked and 
THOUGHT, become a nothing in this fair 
Universe, where we behold in what we see the 
ever-present law of progress from that which 
is below to things on high ? 

We say no ! We would cry it far and 
near— Listen all ye whose hearts are weighted 
by the ever-shifting light and shade of grief 
and joy, of pain and pleasure; know, these 
are the passing things; yet in your inmost 
Souls knowing this, ye still strive and fret and 
chafe. That which lasts is the Soul itself, 
which may, if it will, seize immortality and 
ecstacy at any time that it shall waken, fully 
waken, to the true. 

If in the contemplation of a leaf, torn here 
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Stray Leaves 

and there from some Soul's book, the ever-re- 
curring cadence brings with it sadness and a 
sense of pain prolonged, be not dismayed; for 
such indeed is the experience of all, would 
they but take courage to look about and see. 
The experience of all, so long as they are 
bound by self-made fetters in their fearful 
search for pleasure; not having lost alto- 
gether the memory of that Paradise they came 
from at the first, but having for a time tangled 
the clue which should lead them back. 

Truly, the Soul sought pain that it might 
learn to love; sought travail and restriction 
that it might learn to know the bounties of the 
Law; and surely, surely to the strong comes 
strength, nor do such falter at the rugged 
heights they needs must climb ere, standing 
on the summit, crowned with Love and Mercy, 
they perceive that all is one, that One is 
ALL, their labors having served, though they 
may not have known, to help the many, the 
weakness of the many having served to en- 
lighten them. 

Listen, all ye panting, struggling Souls, to 
the voice of that "Beloved" which for ages ye 

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Eleventh Leaf 

have sought, that Beloved who, in his own 
joy, sits ever in the temple of your hearts. 
Listen and turn from wandering, strife and 
pain, to rest you there and be refreshed by the 
benediction of His voice. Thus he calls to 
you as he has called through all the ages. Ye 
have but to pause and hear. 

u Behold, my children, 'tis / who call to 
you, I the lover of this Universe, this Uni- 
verse which is myself, my own. Throughout 
its shimmering veins my love pours in a gold- 
en stream, seeking to feed the nations — the 
nations? ah, the nations are but a small part 
of that which my love finds; for great and 
small, dark and light, sin and virtue, peace 
or war, my love is there, naught doth it scorn 
but still supplies and still flows on, out to the 
verge of what ye know, back to the heart of 
that which you should long to be. Ah, foolish 
children, ye cry aloud, 'This is pain and this is 
joy; I like not that, it is old and ugly; I love 
this, 'tis fair and young.' Ah, foolish children, 
ye will not see me, though I wait in every 
whitened hair, in every wrinkle on the old 
man's face I lie in hiding if ye would but see. 
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Stray Leaves 

Yea, in that thing ye would call dead, I live 
and plan new beauties. Why will ye look 
askance and draw aside and cry, 'Unclean!' 
and wander far to find me in some distant 
place or time or sphere when there is nought 
ye touch or hear or see that is not me, myself. 
See how the serpent's stretching coils lie close 
upon the warm breast of earth. 'Tis I who 
move him in those graceful lines and teach 
him the strange secrets which have made of 
him the type of mystery. Look, where the 
eagle soaring high beneath the heavenly arch, 
his wings spread wide, scarce moving as he 
sails, a king of air. 'Tis I who lie upon his 
far-stretched pinions; 'tis I who, glancing 
through his keen eyes, perceive the earth be- 
low and joy in freedom." 

Ah, my children, ye speak of contrasts and 
yet ye cannot go so far nor sink so low nor 
mount so high but I am there waiting, wait- 
ing for that day when in mine arms I may en- 
fold you all as a mother enfolds her children, 
suckling you at my breast upon the milk of 
peace. Is it then so hard to come, is it so 
hard? Nay, rouse yourselves my children, 

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Eleventh Leaf 

lay aside these foolish baubles wherewith ye 
have played at love so long and give to me 
the love you have wasted. For truly it must 
grow and wax strong, for I repay, I repay, I 
repay ! 

Yet would I have you love me, not for pay- 
ment nor even for golden streams of love 
which I pour through you, but love me because 
I AM and ye are myself. 



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TWELFTH LEAF 



To him — u Hast thou the song of Life within 

thy heart, and is the marriage 

sweet?" 
To her — "Hast thou the song of Life within 

thy heart, and is the marriage 

sweet?" 

ANCIENT RITUAL 



TWELFTH LEAF 



So through the lengthening times we 
strayed and met, my Soul and I. Through 
days of darkness, dense, unspeakable. A ray 
of light, a touch, a glance; apart, united. 
Ever seeking what? Each other, peace, true 
labor; only to be found when once again to- 
gether, the pain and struggle of those weary 
years should prove to be the Holy Sword of 
Acolade whose final stroke should make of 
us the u Knight of Service" truly. 

Who knows the secret of the Dual Soul? 
Who has searched its mysteries ? Only those 
who are. Only those who have learned to 
know. 

A great wide land, a busy, hustling city, a 
quiet room, an unexpected meeting. Yet there 
we stand once more, close, close. We look, 
we feel, and then, we know. 
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Stray Leaves 

Shall we again forget? No; for this at 
last is recognition, unspoiled by rush of world- 
ly cares, untouched by any save the one high 
purpose, to live the knighthood we have won ; 
to serve and serve, and still to serve as One; 
through lives, through times as One within 
the Temple "Wonderful," not raised by 
hands, but by the living Word of that Divine 
whose Knight we are. 

Hand in hand will we tread the Path, heart 
to heart will we seek the light. The Star which 
is our goal shines ever overhead. The Path 
is long, the way is hard ; yet will we toil on 
together, helping and strengthening one 
another in this day's journey as in the one so 
far behind us. In stronger love and brighter 
spiritual hope, O Ishwara, Lord of the Light, 
make us to know thy voice in other hearts as 
well as in our own; and inform us Thou, 
throughout the coming, generating cycles! 

Hail Holy Light of Truth we bow to Thee. 

FINIS. 



178 



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